(I'm Trying To Be Sincere)
by 1kgal
Summary: Kenny loves fireworks. He also loves other things- like the gum under his desk and surprising people in bathroom stalls. He's not the ideal guy for...anything, but that doesn't matter. Why avoid the inevitable? Why not have fun as the dirty guy he is? [Previously titled "Fireworks"]
1. Alphabet Gum

**For newcomers: Thank you for taking a look! Beware of swearing and other profanities...if you don't like that kind of stuff, this fic is probably not for you (but I don't discourage you for giving it a try anyway!)  
Kenny will be paired with...whomever he pleases!**

**For oldcomers: Now that I have a general plan on where this fic is going, I had to make some changes. I've done some thorough editing-it may be a bit different, so maybe try to reading this again? (I'll continue to edit the other chapters as well)**

* * *

**Chapter 1: Alphabet Gum**

One thing I've always loved are fireworks. I ___know_ it's kind of juvenile but, in all honesty, impressing whoever you are is not on the top of my 'shit I need to do' list. (That list is reserved strictly for food that needs to be consumed and sexy folks who need to be fucked) Anyway, who that hell _wouldn't _like fireworks? They're fantastical displays with explosives, color, and smoke—not to mention it is absolutely free entertainment.

My firework virginity was lost later in life than many other children, actually in my sophomore year in high school. I can't even claim the incident was a drunken mistake—I was _perfectly_ sober. It all transpired out of sheer luck (it wasn't anywhere near the 4th-o-July). I had snuck out of my room late one night, when I noticed two guys from school sneaking around in the shadows of the pawn shop. It was ___obvious_ that the fat one was Eric Cartman—there was no other boy in town who can claim to have reach the Cartman standard of bulk. However, from my view, way the hell across the street, his associate could have been almost anyone. Incidentally, most don't know that I am a descendant of _bloodhounds_—both my grandmas on my mom and my dad's side gave birth to a litter. That is where my sense of curiosity came from most likely. Because, isn't that what bloodhounds are known for? Solving mysteries and stuff? Wasn't Scooby-Doo a bloodhound? So, either my bloodhound heritage kicked in, or the mere fact that I didn't have anything better to do, and I knew I had to find out who was there.

Aware of my every step, I hunched over and walked as briskly as possible without being too obvious. Eventually, the distance was enough were I could hear harsh whispers being exchanged, and soon afterward, I recognized the second voice.

___Stan_? Squinting through the dark I spotted his signature puffball hat, confirming my query. ___What are Cartman and Stan Marsh doing out so late at night? And all alone none the less? Perhaps I've come upon some secret paramours?_

I took a moment to conjure the image. Stan wouldn't be the the aggressor in that pairing—no way. Cartman is much to proud to do anything less than dominate. And screw modern ideals of beauty. Eric Cartman is grossly underestimated because of his looks, but I _know _he has the passion to drive someone fucking crazy if he were to go at it.

I looked around and spotted one of those big postboxes conveniently placed only few feet behind from where they were standing. A perfect cover. Double checking to make sure neither of them were paying attention, I promptly made it to my new hiding spot and dipped out of sight. I was kneeling in a damp gutter and my bare hands were pressed against the biting cold mailbox (seriously, it was so fucking cold, I would have rather had a pit bull chewing on me), and I listened to their conversation.

"Come on, ___Stan!_ Don't wimp out on me now!" Cartman said in his taunting way.

"I don't know why the hell I let you talk me into this, Cartman, what if we get caught or something?"

"___Pshh! _What is anybody gonna do? Call the cops?"

"Yeah! I'm pretty sure this is illegal." Stan ran his hands up and down his arms, voice matter-of-fact.

___Illegal?_ My stomach flipped with the the skill of an Olympic Gold Medalist. ___What are they talking about and why wasn't I invited?_

I shook my head as though I could literally shake away my distracting thoughts. Nothing else in the world was more important than finding out if my two friends were playing play in the other park. I forced myself to focus, clenching my teeth and leaning an ear closer. I can't provide much of a detailed description, seeing as I was having a face-off with a cold ass mailbox, but I can try.

"Well, you could have invited someone else!" Stan wined.

"Like ___who_?" Cartman responded. Rightly, because who _would _want to go out with Cartman? He's an asshole. "I'd rather a dog chew my dick off before I invite Jew boy, and dumb-ass Kenny skipped school today! You, Stan, were the only one left!"

"Why didn't you just go to his house after school and ask him?"

"Across the tracks and to the slums? No, thank you ,Stan. I'd never go over there—probably catch some dirty, poor persons disease!" Eric scoffed. "And why the hell are you being such a pussy? You should be goddamn _grateful_ that I invited you!"

Alright, folks. I admit that some of that may be true. My place ___is_ across the tracks, on the deemed "bad side" of town. It ___is_ considerably dirty. Poor folks ___do_ live there… But that's irrelevant to my point. It is the fact Eric was talking behind my back. Well…not _really_. Cartman busting my balls over how poor I am is like a day without air—It'll only stop when one of us suffocates and dies. Of course I wasn't offended, my feelings aren't made of _popsicle_ sticks. I can handle Cartman being Cartman. However, it's still rude and actually I was getting really sick of kneeling.

I stood upright, holding in the groan that everybody likes to make when they stretch. Eric and Stan both conversed in a little huddle, still completely oblivious to my presence. And if anyone knows me, they know that I am an attention whore.

"Cartman you _dickhead_, stop talking shit about me!" Stan and Eric both jolted at the suddenness of my voice, like they were synchronized scaredy-cats or something.

Both searched through the darkness, both finding me in a creepily synchronized manor. Stan was holding his heart, and even at a distance I could see his eyes twinkle. "___Jesus__,_ Kenny," he gasped, a smile slipping into his tone.

I grinned with a bow, "The one and only!"

"Kenny, you faggot! What the hell are you doing jumping out of nowhere like that—you fucking creep!" I noted the pleasant rouge of Cartman's face as he wheezed his ineffective insults.

"Wow, Cartman. If you didn't notice, both your feet left the ground. That must have been _quite_ the workout for you."

Cartman hissed another insult, easily rejected, as I moved to complete their huddle. "Now, guys. You're gonna have to tell me what you're doing out so late, or I'm just gonna have to contact the authorities about a coupla kids out past their bedtimes. I heard something about something being _illegal_?"

Stan sighed holding up a paper grocery bag. So...they were being economically friendly? My eyebrow raised in question. He proceeded to unfold the top, tilting the opening in my direction. Thundercat, Shrieking Widow, Grandpas Knuckles. What the hell?

Stan clarified, "Cartman had some fireworks leftover from the 4th and he wanted to shoot them off in that empty lot next to the general store."

"Fireworks?" I didn't know how to respond. Sure, I knew what they _were—_everyone does—but I had never seen any in person.

My 4th of July is always spent in the bar with my parents. Not that I can complain; I couldn't miss something I'd never experienced. And don't pity the poor, sheltered Kenny who'd never seen fireworks, because, on the plus side, I had my own fun stealing drinks from all the wasted barmen while they grouped together to sing songs about the good ol' 'U.S. of 'Merica!'. Honestly, it was a good time. Expanded my lexicon of alcoholic drinks. (And, with no reflection on my personality, I prefer those that are fruity)

Cartman scoffed, "Oh. My. _God._ Kenny—you are so unbelievably poor! You don't even know what fireworks are? Are you so poor, you can't even afford _free_?"

The urge to defend my non-existent 'pride' arose from the dead, "I do ___too_ know what fireworks are!"

I guess his condescending attitude can make in under my skin once in a while.

Eric fed off of any sort of reaction, so there was no stopping him, "Sure, sure you do! I'll believe you when you suck my-"

Stan smacked Cartman's shoulder, bringing the insults to an abrupt stop. "_Dude, s_top fighting and shut up! We're gonna get caught if you keep it up."

Cartman rolled his eyes and snatched the paper bag with the air of a selfish child. "Give me back _my _bag." He was going to carry his own shit? What a cruel guy.

"I don't know why I agreed to come." Stan breathed his regrets into the space between us. He didn't look particularly remorseful though when he chose that moment to smile. He motioned his head toward Eric and the two of us began to follow our chubby guide.

Stan was such a modest beauty. Full of that kind of boyish charm, while still being anything but innocent. His posture was laid back, his body the sleek model, and his style—classic. I mean, he couldn't go wrong with that cute duffel brown jacket and that same hat he's worn since 4th grade. Although, I admit, the clothes he wears underneath his jacket can be more interesting. He says he owns them for ironies sake, but it's still kinda hot to see Stan wear a shirt, 'I'm not a doctor but I'll check you out anyway'. Well, it actually is hot. So hot. Goddamn, I would give anything to play doctor with Stan.

I shrugged. "Does anyone really know how Cartman gathers his followers?"

* * *

When we entered the desolate lot, Cartman had already prepared a destination zone with colorful packages(and obscure names—Beluga Shark?) littering the ground. I also noticed that while Stan and I were once walking side by side, he was slowly falling behind. He probably thought he was being slick, but with as much attention I was paying him, he wasn't going to get away with _that_ cheap disappearing act. I looked over my shoulder, checking to see if there was anything wrong. He shook his head putting a finger to his lips. I see how it is now. Alright, Stan, I'll play along. I nodded, walking ahead and acting as though I knew nothing.

Cartman was leaning over his precious paper bag, scooping up a handful of what looked like batteries with fuses. I wasn't sure, but all the colorful paper and dumb names (Gravy Showers?—sounds like some horrific case of diarrhea) was giving me my doubts. I nudged Eric with the tip of my foot.

"We even gave you a head start—what's taking you so long?"

Cartman swung his arm up. I held my forearm out in defense, but then his palm opened with one of the fused battery things. Hm. I pinched it between my thumb and index finder, picking it up and holding it at eye level. This one didn't have any dumb name, so that was a positive.

"You hold that…" Cartman pushed at the ground, climbing to his feet and straightening out. He stuffed the rest of the batteries in one pocket, while fishing in the other. He pulled out a lighter in triumph, "and I'll light it."

He too eagerly reached to light the fuse, setting off an obvious warning alarm. I pulled my hand away.

"So, I _throw_ this after you light it, right?"

Eric's mouth opened in an over exaggerated look of disbelief. Well, either that or I really did say something stupid without knowing.

"Can't you tell? This is a Roman Candle—you _hold_ it and the fireworks shoot out the end! I thought you said you knew..."

I wasn't ready to grant him the satisfaction of being right, and I held out the fuse again. Cartman smirked and flicked at his lighter again. After his first attempt, he lost his smirk. After a few more attempts, he was frowning. "The fuck?" Eric shook it, attempting to conjure flame without success. He continued shaking the lighter, harder and harder, making it ___painfully_ obvious that it wouldn't be working anytime soon.

Cartman cursed, throwing down the cheap piece of plastic. "Stupid, fucking, ___damned_ lighter!"

Graciously, I pulled out my own. "Would you like to borrow mine?" I made sure to emphasis how sweet my gesture was, waving the lighter I held like a dog treat.

Cartman grimaced, swiping at it once before staring me right in the eye. "Since when do you carry a lighter?"

I couldn't help but roll my eyes. "Who ___cares_?"

I waved the lighter again, slow enough where Eric was finally able to snatch it. _Fft. Fft_. Then there was a quiet 'click' as the flame ignited.

I didn't stretch out the battery toward him just yet. I rolled it in my hands, looking at the red wrapping and squishing the fuse under my thumb. "This thing is kind of small. Wouldn't I get burnt by sparks or something?" I didn't know much about fireworks, but I knew that they tended to explode. I didn't want to risk loosing my fingers—or else my career as a _hand model_ would be out the window. But, in all seriousness, I didn't want to blow off my fucking fingers and, if anyone, goddamn Eric Cartman would be the exact guy to help me do it.

His face glowed in the firelight, the shadows created making his face look warped.

"Kenny, Kenny, _Kenny_… It'll feel like nothing's there!"

Against my better judgment, I inclined the fuse toward the flame.

Stan then decided to make a grand entrance, smacking the lighter away from Eric as if it were a drink of poison about to be taken by his lover. The light was sucked away into darkness. Cartman hissed, searching directly around his feet for where it disappeared.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Cartman? Were you actually gonna let Kenny stand there while you lit a _firecracker _in his hand? Of course it'd feel like there was nothing there—Kenny would have lost his entire hand!"

Cartman was crouched down, sweeping his hands over the cracked pavement. "I wasn't actually gonna let him do it, alright? I was just testing to see if he would—you don't need to be such a drama queen—I wasn't gonna let him blow off his god-damned hand. _God dammit_, where the hell did it go?"

Eric held up a rock, observing it in the moonlight before chucking in over his shoulder.

"Aw, Stan. Thank you for trying to be my savior."

Stan's expression of panic melted, shrugging it off in his modesty. I think I love it most when he's modest. There is something really sexy about someone who doesn't abuse their charms. I stepped closer, winding my arms around him for a hug. I couldn't feel his warmth through his clothes. Disappointing. I began to mumble more thanks into his shoulder, hoping to grant myself more time as I searched. Stan was taking everything in stride, even going to far as to give my back a few pats. Slowly, I was able to slip my fingers up, touching the fire that was his lower back.

Stan gasped, grabbing my shoulders and prying me away. "Kenny," he said with warning.

"Stan?"

I clasped my hands together, hugging them to my chest as I batted my eyes. Picture of innocence, right? Yeah, Stan didn't buy the bait it either.

Cartman apparently had given up his search, wedging Stan and I further apart.

"I came out here to set off fireworks, not to start some ass-way romance between you two." Cartman shoved a finger into each of our chests. "Help me find the lighter!"

"Then start already," Grinning, I lifted my foot up and bent to pick up the little piece of plastic. It was _my _lighter after all; I wasn't going to lose it so easily.

Eric sneered, taking the lighter as well as prying the firecracker from my other hand.

"And no need to feel jealous of our ___ass-way _romance. You'll find a man who likes your ass someday too," I added for good measure.

Finally, the moment came. Something about that moment had my insides suddenly wound tight. I didn't dare breathe, watching as the wick showered sparks. Cartman grunted, flinging them across the lot. There was a pop, a crack, and a flash of light. I loved it. Short lasting, but it definitely left an impression. Cartman set off one after another, slowly getting into the spirit of things as he tried to show off. I hazarded a glance at Stan. He was smiling too.

"What do you think about lighting off the Wumbo-Jumbo?" Eric enthused.

He picked up a huge red, white, and blue cylinder laying off to the side. I drank in the sight eagerly. There is something. There is something about fireworks that...moves me. I know they're inanimate, but seeing them bloom and burn in their last moment, shrieking and blinding anyone there to witness... there is something about that that I want to feel. It looks exhilarating. Living life without hazard—looks like a helluva time.

There was a slight tugging on my sleeve. Looking over, Stan was holding me at the elbow, trying to pull me further away. My happiness twitched, and I resisted his prompt to pull back. I wanted to _see_ them. Up close and personal. I wanted to see them, but Stan wasn't allowing it. He fully wrapped his hand around my arm, backing us both a few more feet.

Cartman was running as fast as he could waddle away from the 'Wumbo-Jumbo'. There was a great howling and my eyes followed as an amber star shot into the sky. For a brief moment, it looked as though it had dissipated completely. I held my breath. There was no disappointment. A boom that no only rung in my ears, but rung in my chest. An explosion of golden light. Goodbye, little star.

I squeezed Stan's hand. Then, I looked down at our hands, because I hadn't noticed them. I looked up, accidentally making eye contact. Stan smiled innocently, giving a squeeze back. I had opened my mouth to make a comment, when instead an alarm began to sound. The deadbeat police decided to make an appearance after all.

"_Crap____,_ I _told_ you, Cartman! I told you someone was going to call the police!" His posture was straightened. Stan let go, retreating backwards as he faced the sound of alarms.

"Shut the hell up, Stan! I have my own goddamn ears!"

I didn't stick around to watch Cartman as he bumbled about, trying to save his fireworks or see which direction Stan headed. I was already running like a track star through the streets and over the tracks to home base. I didn't need to add anything _else_ to my already fragile record. It helped that I didn't give one fuck if Cartman got caught—he deserves any punishment he can get. But, Stan? It hurt to leave him behind, and I wished good luck to 'em. Lord knows he only gets into trouble because of the people he hangs out with. And don't be thinking, ___'Oh, Kenny. You're such a hypocrite.' _'Cause I know that _I'm_ one of 'em too. I ain't no saint and never tried to be one. It's best to accept yourself for the low-down, dirty person you are and have fun, than to spend all your energy trying to deny it.

I'm sure I had broke a record of some sort when I reached home. I hurdled over our worthless excuse for a 'white picket fence', climbed through my open window, and landed on the lumpy mattress just under the sill. All the lights were out. I crawled across the room, flicking the light switch. The power was out. Again.

I debating taking off my parka for the night, sitting against the wall with my legs crossed. The power was out. The heat would go along with it. The only quilt I have is too short to fit my growing body. Yeah, I should keep the jacket on tonight.

I crawled to my dresser now, emptying my pockets onto the very top. I was able to remove everything, but I couldn't find...

Right. Cartman still had my lighter.

* * *

The next day I decided to make an appearance at school. I had to show up once in a while or social services might step in and nobody wanted to go down ___that _road again. Sure I had woken up later than usual and the bus stop was a while away, but that bus was usually late and that would only make my arrival on time.

The parents were asleep so that made things easier. I opened up the cupboard, opened up a band new box of Pop-Tarts, and took out one of the silver packages. I tore the edges carefully, taking a single tart out and putting the other back in the box for later. No electric, so no toaster. I looked my breakfast in the eye. The confetti sprinkles always look so depressing to me. I took a cold bite. Blueberry. I always ask for strawberry but they never listen. At least it was something...

I ran outside into the snowy townscape. The wind was blowing particularly heavy today, whipping snowflakes like they were lethal weapons. I tugged my hood tighter, only leaving room to see straight ahead. Turned to the right, and then I took a leisurely pace, walking like I wasn't actually freezing to death.

Stan and Kyle were already there ahead of me, huddled together under the bus-stop sign. They didn't hear my footsteps over the sound of the wind, allowing my to approach to be secret. Their shoulders were pressed firmly against each other, demonstrating a closeness that they could never share with others.

"God, it's cold out today," Stan mumbled out loud.

"Hi, friends." I decided to act as the filling to their sandwich, hooking each of their arms and squeezing in the middle. It was so much warmer already. I hugged them closer, hoping to convince them how nice it was to share body warmth. Kyle pulled away, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets instead.

"You're coming to school today?" the Jew-borne asked.

"I'm here aren't I?" Why bother coming out in the shitty weather for any other reason? Just to have a friendly conversation and leave?

"What happened to you yesterday? Why weren't you at school?"

"I need a reason to skip?" I asked wryly. Stan removed his arm now, copying Kyle's choice of posture.

Kyle shook his head in remorse. "Man. What are you gonna do when you get older?"

I cocked my head as if I were reasoning it. "I was thinking about becoming a good and healthy mechanic. Playing with cars. Vroom, vroom. Beep, beep. Or, maybe something else. Ya know, whatever happens. Let the chips land as they fall or however it goes…"

Kyle shook his head again as the bus pulled up. I looked around. Cartman wasn't here yet. Half the reason I came was because I wanted my lighter back. Where _was_ he? I looked at Stan who stood without giving any verification. If Cartman ___had _been arrested, he would have said so by now, right?

I was gonna have to wait to ask, because they both had already taken themselves into the big yellow source of public transportation. And before giving the bus driver a reason to snap, I hopped up the steps, moved the furthest end of the bus, and waited for my day to begin.

* * *

I took a strange amount of relish in forcing my locker shut. (I imagined Eric's fat head was in the way and I was able to squish it inside) Why was I housing such aggression today? Cartman had taken a personal day apparently.

I am less than happy. I want my lighter back. I asked Stan what happened and it turns out that he had checked out just as fast as I had. Didn't even care to see if we were able to fair on our own. I'm not going to judge. I was the same. Save yourself first, worry about the rest later.

The bell had rung maybe a little bit longer then five minutes ago, and I was undoubtedly late for class. I don't really care about missing those vital first few minutes of class, but the teachers sure do. Well, that's not the truth entirely. They don't really care. They're just upset with the system and low budgets, taking their frustrations out on whoever steps out of line first. Because it's not as if this is some classy institution of higher learning or anything. The teachers don't want to waste their time here any more than the students do. But, because of poor decisions made in the past, they're stuck in little, old town of South Park carrying on a lifeless career trying to tame us mountain kids. I say it's a waste of their time and breath to scold kids for being tardy, but you can't stop them if their real motive is to waste time.

"Kenny McCormick, what are you doing coming into class so long after the bell rang?"

I made an inward sigh. So _predictable._

"Now, you may not think high school is important, and you may not think History is important, but when you're older you're going to want to thank me. The thing is, kids these days-" ___Blah, blah, blah. _Yes. I've heard the whole spiel before. School, good. No school, bad. But, it's not like they could _force_ me to learn. They can bring a horse to the watering hole…and something about drinking. I don't know how the phrase ends. I really should stop trying to sound philosophical, because it just makes me sound more stupid. Funny how I'm not a big fan of the school, but I hate to sound stupid. It's the worst kind of conundrum.

"-and if anything happens I don't want you blaming me. All I want to do is help-"

She was ___still _going on about everything? Jesus, did she start writing a speech the moment she saw I wasn't in class yet? Can't she see I don't care? This is ridiculous.

I crossed my arms, casually looking at my classmates. Rants like these were prime-time to talk to each other, so I was the _last_ person anyone was paying attention to. I'm kind of jealous. I'd rather be out there whispering, then up here having my ears gnawed off by the crisp and spit-filled voice of Miss Applebee.

"On another note-"

"Yes, Miss Applebee," I interrupted before the barrage could continue. "I think I have learned my lesson. I will now, and forever, hold my education at a higher value. I will cherish each and _every_ moment I am in this classroom, and one day when I'm successful I'll remember _you_ being the one to straighten me out. Thank you, Miss Applebee. I am evermore in your hands and would like to sit down to a fresh start at a new and bright future."

I have no problems with being a suck-up, and If anybody has a problem with it, they can politely go and suck it. I do what I do to stay alive. This was maybe not a 'live or die' situation, but it's the same concept. And it works. Miss Applebee tried to look modest, shaking her head while fanning a blush.

"No, no…I'm not ___that _great."

"Oh, but you are."

"Oh, Kenny, you think too highly of me. Go ahead and sit down."

And the prize goes to, Kenny McCormick! For the fastest scolding in the history of South Park!

I returned to sit in my usual place. As Miss Applebee finally started up that teaching business, I quickly ran a hand along the underside my desk. Finally, I felt something wet and sticky beneath my fingers. I picked the gum off, placing it in my mouth without hesitation. _Yummy._ Tropical fruit. And don't you be out there wasting your time going '_ew__' __be_cause that won't turn back time, and I'm not planning on changing my habits yet. I haven't gotten sick so it seems perfectly fine to continue until I'm proven to.

Sometimes, I like wonder who's sitting in this desk the hour before me. All I know is they must be an avid chewer, 'cause there's a fresh piece there every day. I wonder if they'd be offended that I'm chewing their gum every day. What kind of person sits in this desk before me? I've never really taken time to find out.

I felt a tap on my arm, turning to look at Craig.

"Hey, do you have anymore gum? I was dared to lick the inside of an old lunch bag and I can't get the taste of spoiled mayonnaise out of my mouth." As if to emphasize this problem, he brushed his tongue with the collar of his shirt.

"Sorry, Man. This was my only piece."

* * *

Lunch is a good time. Lunch is a free meal time. Today's special? Chicken noodle soup with a tuna sandwich, side of lettuce, and your choice of fruit. Not exactly the food of kings, but it was food. I plopped down next to the empty seat where Cartman usually sat, biting into my sandwich. The bread was crusting and the tuna slimy. I swallowed, chasing it down with chocolate milk. Things weren't going my way today.

Kyle was across from me, stirring his soup with a plastic spoon and staring at the lumps of chicken as they surfaced and sunk back into the greasy broth.

"Why do you get a lunch if you never eat it?" I tried to grab a spoonful of his soup, but the only noodle I managed to scoop up quickly slipped off, splashing back into its home.

His eyes connected with mine, hardened with apathy. "If you want it, have it."

I wish he wouldn't do that. I wish he didn't simply assume that that was my own backhanded way of asking for food. I know that _other_ people think that about me, but we're friends. He's supposed to know that I actually give a fuck about him. Kyle hasn't been eating lunch—that's a bad thing.

He wouldn't talk to me about it anyway.

So, there's no use in dwelling. I'm only the clown of the group anyhow—just shut the fuck up and make them laugh.

"Well, if you're not busy then, care to take a piss with me? It's all the rage to go the the bathroom with a friend—_all _the girls are doing it."

His eyes flew wide open, suddenly very interested in trying to bending the head of his spoon. "Just go by yourself..."

I should explain.

In the recent past I had a sort of 'habit'. At least, that's what I liked to call it. I don't know where the idea came from, but for a while, every day at lunch I would go to the restroom, get completely naked, and wait in a stall. It's not like there was some crazy fetish behind it or anything hardcore like that. It was honestly just a creative form of entertainment. There are a whole lot of bastards who will kick in a stall without a second thought about whether there was someone already in it or not. It is not an uncommon occurrence to be interrupted by a guy walking in on you with his pants already around his ankles. I gave up on trying to hold the stall shut with one leg. I evolved. I would let them come, but I made sure they left with a lesson learned. A lesson to fucking _check_ before backing his ass into somebody else trying to take a crap. Goddamn, their reactions were priceless. They act like they've never seen another guy naked before.

Anyway, it was back in the day when I got the ___best_ reaction from none other than Kyle Broflovski. It was shocking at first. The entire time I had been teaching my lesson in bathroom etiquette, I'd never encountered a close friend. I was almost embarrassed—that would have been the first and only time Kyle has seen me fully nude. In retrospect, the thing I regret most is that there wasn't better lighting. Those florescent lights make everything look smaller than they actually are.

I watched as his gaze as it traveled my body in confusion. He gripped the top of the stall door, looking around before looking back at me. "Kenny?" I had to take the opportunity when granted. I spread my legs, placing a hand on the inside of my thigh. The movement caught his attention, and he finally found where the money was. I kept my voice low and quiet as I invited him to come in.

Kyle fa_inted. _He _fainted_. Fell straight backwards like they do in the movies.

Although, to defend his _manly_ honor, he _had_ been complaining about feeling sick all that day. It was still funny. Well, I didn't laugh about it right away; I had to check if he was okay first. I dressed myself and dragged Kyle's body into the hallway, propping him against the wall. I called out his name a few times, and he finally opened his eyes. Once he saw me…his eyes widened as he automatically checked to see what I was (or wasn't) wearing. I asked what was wrong. He turned his head and noticed he was in front of the lunchroom again. I asked if he'd collapsed or something while trying to get to the nurse's office. He agreed with my lie. That moment, I had to summon the will of an iron vault to hold in my laughter. There was only one thing that could have meant. Kyle Broflovski thought he had a _dream_ about me. Oh, isn't life _sweet_? I think so.

I gave up the whole 'naked in the stall' thing afterword though. I probably wouldn't be so lucky next time, so I quit while I was ahead.

Kyle still remembers that day clearly it seems and whenever I need a quick fix to Kyle being gloomy, I advertently remind him. He still hasn't admitted to what he's thinking while he tried to hide his expression. I look forward to when he does.

So, now that Kyle was healthily in some sort of emotional state, I was able to rest easy. Job well done.

Stan was looking at Kyle too, noticing his shift in attitude. "Kyle-?"

"So where's Cartman?" I asked in an interruption. Stan was always ruining my work these days. I manage to get Kyle into a place of peace, and as soon as our raven-haired pal speaks, he fucks it up. Nobody thinks I pay attention to these things but that's all I ever do.

Stan picked up his orange, stabbing a thumb nail into it's flesh. "I'm telling you, I don't know." He peeled the skin back, citrus spraying into the air.

I hate to dis on a friend, but Stan was seriously ignorant sometimes.

There was a -___clack-_ as a plastic lunch tray sat down next to mine. Leave it to Cartman to arrive at lunch time.

I turned, ready to have a face-off and let go of some steam. Butters might as well have stomped on my kidneys—getting my hopes up like that. Maybe I was being melodramatic, but I ___really_ wanted my lighter.

Butters stood with eyes darting just below eye-level, twisting the hem of his sweater. "H-hey, guys."

"Hey, Butters," Stan greeted without any particular concern.

Butters sat down cautiously, pulling himself into as little space as he could fit. He's grown up a lot, but he still carries around with the confidence of a claustrophobic agoraphobic kid in a Disney park. I tousled his hair, relishing in its downy softness. He'd grown it out since elementary school and now he kinda had this 'humble artist' look about him. Like, slap a beret on him and send him to France to paint a picture of a classy prostitute, kind of look.

"Hello, Butters," I said in my most sweetest voice. "Lookin' good."

He didn't respond, clearing his throat and peeling into his orange. Hm. He also became very good at sensing bullshit and responding accordingly. It usually gets him through the day at least. He's pretty good with comebacks and even better at ignoring everyone.

It hurt a bit. I didn't want Butters to treat me like everyone else did. Like, everything I said was a joke.

"Thanks."

The response was barely a mumble, but I heard it and felt a ripple of happiness travel through my veins. I locked my arm around his neck, pulling him close. I planted a kiss on his ear.

"Welcome, Sweetie."

Don't know where that came from. I guess I was being one of those southern waitress with the big smile and bigger hips calling everyone '___Hun__,'_ '___Sweetie__,'_ and '___Darlin__'_. I let him go, and Butters returned back to his orange. I really liked that little quirk at the corner of his lips. I wanted to kiss there too. I couldn't though. Between friends, only once in a day and I usually tried not to make it intimate.

I was a little less irritated now. Stan was normal, Kyle wasn't brooding anymore, and Butters had taken me seriously. But, what the hell, I was still going to give Eric a hard time when I visited him after school.

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**Thank you for reviews! I really would like getting input on how I'm doing!**


	2. Goodnight Kiss

**Another chapter edited~ **

**[Haha, have I make any improvements though?]**

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**Chapter 2: Goodnight Kiss**

The setting: After school. A usual shitty and snowy day. In front of Cartman's house.

Premise: He took my lighter and my mission—get it back.

I rang the doorbell once and knocked twice before Ms. Cartman answered the door.

"Oh, ___Kenny_! Have you come to visit Eric?"

I gave an exaggerated nod. Through the peephole of my parka I looked at the semi-transparent nightgown of Ms. Cartman. Long night, eh? Not that I disrespect the woman for what she does. As far as I know, she's keeping her life together and supporting none other than _Cartman_, which had to be a chore beyond belief. She has the patience of a saint and is my favorite mom in South Park.

Ms. Cartman smiled through the shadows under her eyes, standing aside to allow me in. Eager to escape the cold, I hopped in while she shut the door behind me. I stomped a few times, staking off the already melting snow. This is the very reason why I enjoy visiting Cartman. There is no _suspicion._ No slight wrinkling of noses. No concerned whispers behind my back. (Unless it's coming from Eric, but he doesn't count)

Don't get me wrong—it's not like the other parents do that sort of stuff to my _face_. I suspect most of them don't even know they're actually doing anything. I can't blame them. There are a lot of bad things associated with my presence, and the gossip circles stretch far and wide. I understand they're trying to protect their children, but what are they expecting I'm going to do? Turn their kids into gay, alcoholic, smoker, drug and sex addicts with no future better than getting business under a bridge? First off, I'm a better fucking friend than that, and I don't wish that existence on anyone. Second, I aint going to pressure anyone into something they didn't fucking want on their own—so if any one of them decides to take up gambling or some shit, I wasn't some magical Houdini manipulating the strings...

And the parents should know better than that. Their kids, _all of them_, are amazingly strict against temptation. Even those moments where they falter(and they _have_ faltered before), they are also able to pick themselves back up. Far from any addict—they're just being the dumb-ass teenagers they are.

"Cookie?" Ms. Cartman had left and come back without my noticing, bringing me out of my frustrated contemplations. She held a tray just above breast-level; I gazed upon the ___Pillsbury Big Deluxe Classics: White Chunk Macadamia Nut _cookies, stacked and arranged, like fat pancakes, in a decorative flower shape. Each bite they offered was probably halfway to type-two diabetes...but I couldn't say, ___no_. That would be rude!

Warm and melty: my favorite adjectives in describing a cookie. I slipped the monstrous treat through the opening in my hood, taking it all in my mouth at once. It was a tight fit, but I managed. Luckily it was soft and broke down enough to chew without choking. It was sweet. So much so that I cringed a bit, a spark traveling down into the pit of my stomach. I peeled my hood off, making sure that Ms. Cartman could see my gratitude.

"Oh, honey... I was going to bring this to Eric myself, but since you're here, could you bring it along on your way up? I'll make dinner for everyone."

"Of course." I took the tray, nodding courteously and started to ascend the stairs. Along the way I swallowed a few more cookies. They may have been excessively sweet, but food is something I so often live without. And Cartman would probably do better with skipping a cookie or two.

I'd been over enough to know where his room was; right across from the bathroom. I also knew he had a faulty lock—consequence of a disastrous game of ___Cops and Robbers_ him, me, Stan, and Kyle played when we were younger. (Stan had locked himself in Eric's room, and Cartman had us put together an explosive to blow the door open. He 'fixed' it himself so he wouldn't have to tell his mom) So, just for fun, I kicked as hard as I could at the base of the door, watching it swing open like they do in an old western saloon.

"Howdy, Partner!"

Cartman was lying on his bed, belly down as he pumped something in front of his face. I didn't get a very good look. The moment he saw my beautiful figure gracing his doorway, he pitched it, something green and fuzzy, across the room and into the closet.

"___Fuck, damn, shit, _Kenny!" he shouted in a burst of turrets-worthy swearing. "What the fuck? Why are you breaking into my goddamn room?" He rolled to his feet, stumbling before getting his balance back.

My eyes flitted towards the closet. Wonder what he threw in there…

"I'm not breaking in. You're mom let me in, _Asshole._" I tried to casually walk in the closet's direction.

His eyes narrowed, brown and beady. "Get out of here, _Kenny_!" Eric widened his stance, looking at his closet too.

A few steps and I would be able to see. I find it best to load up on confidential information about jack-asses. It's like, a get out of jail free pass. Except, more of a 'shut-the-fuck-up' pass. The thing about Eric however, is that he isn't embarrassed by the things he should be embarrassed about. He so fucking prideful, even if he _is _embarrassed by it—he'll deny it until he isn't anymore. He is such a fucking hassle.

"Get out of my room, Kenny!" He started to approach.

"Fetch!" I tossed one of the leftover cookies in his direction. It bounced off his left mammary, falling to the floor in two separate chunks.

Well, he sure loses his sense of humor quick when he's not the one playing. Cartman stomped over, catching me under the arm and jostled me toward the door. I offered Christ my thanks that all Eric had to offer in a fight was his weight. I could work around that pretty easily.

It did take quite a bit of back-and-fourth to win him over though. I couldn't pick him up or anything. Whenever I tried to shove him over, he'd return with an even harder shove. I was able to back into the doorway, using it to support my balance.

"If you want to take me against the wall, you could at least get me dinner first." I finally hooked him around the leg, this time I jerking him to my chest. The shock showed on his face as his expression contorted at our closeness. I simpered.

"You, Sonofabitch!" Eric tried to back away, but I wouldn't let him. "Let _go_!"

I began to smile. Cartman struggled harder now, hands pushing away at my shoulders. I held him close, grinning while looking him in the eye. He was such a dork in any situation he wasn't in control over. I leaned my face closer.

"Kenny, you faggot. I told you to-"

"Whatever you want." I gave him a helpful shove, watching him fall into his bedside table and roll to the floor.

"___Damn it_, Kenny!" He roared, face glowing red as he groped for something to help pull himself up.

I snickered, taking my chance to leap in the closet. I spotted the only green article, grabbing the soft plush body. Oh, no. God, no.

"I have to say, it's kind of pathetic—but not what I was hoping for. Damn you all with your dumbass secrets."

I chucked Clyde Frog back at Cartman, literally disgusted with the trouble I went through to get it. Everyone, they all are just a bunch of pussies with nothing worth hiding and nothing worth finding out. I already know I'll never find anything dangerous—but can't they at least have a secret anything-that-I-don't-know-about? Like...I don't know. A bedazzled shake-weight?

"Give me my lighter already, Fatass." The hunt was over, with miserable spoils to show for it. I should never have allowed my expectations to inflate like that.

Cartman pushed against his bed, slowly sliding up the side and back to his feet. "Fuck you, Kenny!" he growled.

"Fuck you, fuck me, it's gay either way you phrase it."

"Who tied ___your _nuts in a knot?"

"I just want what's _mine_."

Cartman draped himself over a corner of the bed, reaching into that same paper bag from the night before.

"Try not to visit again while you're on your ___period, _Kenny," he chucked the red hunk of plastic in my direction. It hit my shoulder and I quickly put my hands up to catch it as it rolled down.

"Hey, Buddy," I flashed him the only finger that counts. "This ones for you."

I sat on the bed corner, slowly lying down while allowing Cartman time to get out of my way. Sure enough, he wiggled out-of-the-way and sat cross-legged of the floor.

"Got any dirty pictures of your mom?" I asked as nonchalantly as a friend could.

Eric's face darkened at the mention of his mother. As much as I like Ms. Cartman, a guy's mom was one of the best ways to pinch a nerve.

"Suck my dick!"

"Sure, but I'm not cheap."

"Fuck you!"

"Got to make a living."

"Go to hell!"

"Already have one foot in." I tousled his hair with a promiscuous stoking behind his ear.

My approach was slapped away and Eric reached under his bed, tossing a magazine at my head. "Keep the damn thing!"

It was times like this where I knew Cartman and I were, at the least, more than just acquaintances. He understood me. The Playboy crackled lewdly as I opened to the centerfold. ___Yes. _This is what I needed. I flipped to my stomach, making myself more comfortable.

"I will kill you where you lie if you try to masturbate in my room. So help me, I will chop off your dick and let you bleed to death."

"I would ___never_ have suggested it!" I answered in mock astonishment.

Cartman grumbled until I had tucked my new treasure safely inside my parka, hugging it to my chest. He is such a retard, but I can't hate him for very long. Maybe I can't hate him _because_ he's a retard. Eric was pouting now, cheeks puffed out like they were full of pudding.

"And where were you this morning?"

Cartman held his frog's head, massaging his fingers deep into its scalp. "It none of your business. I'll skip whenever I want!"

I bet he was almost caught, damn near pissed himself, and when he got home he _cried_.

"Cops catch ya?"

"Kenny...did you get the stupid stick rammed up your ass or something? Would I be _here_ if I were caught by the police?"

"Maybe if your mom-"

"Shut the hell up with talkin' 'bout my mom!"

Suddenly the heavenly bells rang: "_Dinner's ready!_"

I should probably be embarrassed at how those two words made me run faster than when I thought the cops were after me. I'm petty. I'll admit it. So pathetically ___lame_. It's something I have had to embrace in order to get fed though. Pride is for the rich or those bound toward disaster. What does a hormonal teenage boy need with pride anyway? Pride won't let me take advantage of a drunken party chick, and I say that is a shame. Pride is a _sin_. _'____So is lust and gluttony, two sin that I am not innocent of'_...I am not blind to my faults. I just accept them.

So, Ms. Cartman's cooking is orgasmic enough to cause wet dreams. Fats, sugars, carbs, salt, and all that crap. If anything was sin, Ms. Cartman's cooking was sin. It could ___kill_ a man who wasn't prepared. God, I was hungry. Lunch hadn't been enough. Maybe I was over exaggerating though. I've heard that hunger can make you delusional. If that's so, I've probably been delusional for a long time.

Skipping the novel-length amount of description I could use to describe my inhuman love and appreciation and___love_ for food, I'll say—all good things come to an end. Cartman didn't waste ___any _time kicking me back out into the cold. Whatever. It's not like he's the best out of my arsenal of friends.

Alone and out on a cold night, I didn't have many options on what to do with myself. The sky was completely clear, each and every pinprick of light separate and vivid. There wasn't any wind, but my face still felt completely numb. Every breath I took my lungs felt like they were restricting a little more. My place was so far away. Was there a place I could cash for the night? Kyle and Stan had been talking about something. At lunch. Not Kyle and his potential fantasizing about me. Not the lighter. After all that. Butters had sat down. Games. I wasn't invited really. They were talking about it in front of me though, so I assume it was a free for all. It's kind of late though. I looked at my imaginary watch. Are they asleep? Naw. Gaming for goes way into the wee hours of the morning. Maybe I can get a place to sleep for the night. Yes. I think I will.

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I'm glad I didn't use the front door. Or else the hot fest of tangled limbs I met with might have been missed. I didn't really know what was happening or why—but frankly, I didn't give a fuck. Kyle had Stan face to the floor, straddling his back. Stan twisted his torso around, trying to tip Kyle to the side. I didn't want to interrupt. No. I really, _really_ did. I resisted as best as I could. The fact is though, it takes a lot of energy to climb up the side of a house and it takes an even curiouser amount to stay perched at a windowsill.

I pushed the window out-of-the-way as quietly as I could manage, hoping to the lord they would keep up whatever they were doing.___ Which seems sort of useless since I've heard the lord isn't 'all that' for free love._ I remained seated on the sill, feet on Stan's bed and leaned in to listen.

"Dude, your ass is bony. Get off." Stan whined, bucking weakly.

"That's not the only bone that I want to get off." I laughed at my own dirty humor, as Stan and Kyle separated in surprise. I think ruining the moment was worth it. I have a real dedication to humor.

"You can't use the door like anyone else?" Stan yelled, voice cracking near the end. He adjusted his shirt that was hiked up above his waist. Kyle scoffed, sitting with his knees near his chin.

"It's an absolute ___tragedy_ that you had to stop on account of me. By all means, continue. I'm an expert at spectating these kinds of things."

Kyle thrust a controller in the air. "We were playing a _game._ Stan gave me a half-dead controller, and I ended up getting a crap score because of him. We were only fighting."

I rolled my hips around, scooting inside all the way. The prehistoric cube-of-a-TV flicked 'Game Over' in big, bold, letters. I don't care what system he had, it always looked like old-school Nintendo on that screen.

"If I were tousled together with Stan like you there, I'm sure it would have been me as the one who scored." I wiggled my eyebrows in Stan's direction.

Stan groaned, still with a hint of bemusement. "I'm not gay and stop acting like ___you_ are!"

Acting! _It was always an act to them._ I threw my hands up, tossing away all fucks. I'll play along.

"No, no, no, no, no—I can't pretend how sexy you are Stan. You're _so_ sexy and you ___tease _me!" I crawled toward him, off the bed and pretending to fall in agony. "How long do you plan to let this go on? I just want to hear your love noises!" I slipped my hand into his lap which he promptly pushed away.

"_No_."

Didn't even give my offer a pause of consideration. Oh well. I'll leave it for another day. I crawled a bit further, settling between both their bodies. I nudged Stan.

"Can I stay the night? Pretty please? Pretty, pretty, _pretty_ please? I'll share the porn mag I got earlier!"

I held the adult picture book open to an exposed, busty blonde—just as Mrs. Marsh walked in. The situation was laughable. Stan's face was even more laughable as he tackled the magazine as he tried to hide it. "H-hey mom!" He squeaked, stuffing it under his arm. I guess that wasn't the best of ways to ask to stay the night. Waving around Candice Lorraine, whose turn-on's include: role-play, blue eyes, and long hair.

After some intense explaining-of-the-situation on Stan's part, everything went back to normal. I was even still allowed to stay the night.

"You should really start locking your door," I suggested, slipping the magazine away and flipping through a few pages.

"I didn't have a reason to until you got here, _stupid_!"

Kyle swapped controllers and restarted their game. "Okay, I get the good controller this time. Three rounds each, and then we switch."

Stan agreed, restarting the gaming system and leaving me to hug Candice to my chest. ___She _would understand me! She whose turn-off's included: beards, bad breath, and tan-lines.

The fighter game sang its little tune and Stan and Kyle focused on the screen. "Put that thing away, Kenny, before my mom comes back in again."

"No. With all this sexual frustration, Candice is here to rub it all away."

"She better not rub anything in here." Kyle stated plainly, eyes not even caring enough to give me a glance. He went into a fit of pressing buttons, eyes wild with intensity as his character apparently gained the upper-hand. There was a lot of manly grunting and flashing. Very homo-erotic out of context.

"I'll do it for you too if you want." Kyle finally tore his eyes away from the screen. What an ___expression_! I delightful mix of disarray, irritation, and frustration. That's all I ever seem to drag out of him nowadays. It's not as though we fight—we've just drifted apart. It sucks balls though. Because we're friends.

"What makes hitting on your friends so funny to you, Kenny?"

"What? But, I _mean_ it. Fuck, I'll do it as soon as you give me the o.k.—right here if that's your kink." I waved Candice around much like a proud patriot would wave a flag. "In the name of Candice Lorraine, I will service you well to not dishonor the Playboy household!"

"Dude, chill out with the porn." Stan huffed, pausing their game and gabbing at Candice with malicious intent. I stood on my knees, pulling her out of reach. "Come on, Man, my mom's gonna end up coming in again…"

"Get the hell off me, Kenny!"

I faked a wince as Kyle slapped my back with both hands before I was able to sit on his lap.

"No need to throw a tit," I cooed with artificial sweetness. "I understand that you have fears concerning intimacy, but we'll get _through _it."

I rolled backwards in an awkward summersault-type motion, getting out of range from his swinging controller. Kyle is so reluctant at times. A real hardass.

"I just thought—because of what happened between us after lunch? The stalls…"

Kyle turned a shade darker than his hair as his eyes became vacant in an expression of horror. Like, he'd just saw a naked grandma or something else embarrassingly horrific. Wait. If anything, he was thinking of a naked _me_. Aw...that's really a wound to the heart.

I watched with an expert poker-face as Kyle continued to struggle, matching letters into words and sentences. Lots of '_but_'s and '_I thought_'s were heard, but the rest was pretty much baby-gurgle. I wonder what he's thinking. He still too stubborn to say anything. But, I love that about him.

Standing up, I tripped over a pile of empty game cases on my way over to the wall switch, flipping it and darkening the room. I tiptoed around the mess more cautiously now, sneaking behind Kyle. Well, not actually sneaking. There was no way in hell he didn't see me, but he wouldn't say anything. He can be a real tight-ass sometimes, but he changes when the lights go out. His shoulders were tense and his mouth wired shut. I walked behind him, pulling his head back to see those green, glowing eyes looking straight into mine.

"Goodnight, Kyle." I kissed him on the forehead. "Let not your brow frown—that was done with the purest and the least amount of homosexuality I can manage."

I did the same for Stan. They both went back to playing their game as they do. I went to the bed to be a spectator as I do. The goodnight kiss? They might just think of it as nothing—because the value of things decrease the more often you do them. I've kissed them like that so many times it has lost any real meaning. It becomes 'just Kenny'. I'm not sure if I like it that way...I can't change it though. So, I'll let them think what they like. I know I'm honest at least.

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**Thank you for reading another chapter! I appreciate every reader and every review!**


	3. The Switch Has Flipped

**Well, if you were wondering this once labeled 'side-project' is now kind of a thing. Here's another chapter with a few edits. Hope you enjoy!**

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**Chapter 3: The Switch Has Flipped**

I stole Mrs. Marsh's bra. I have a feeling she might like me better if I can get her something practical for Christmas. Something that she needs and is familiar with. What else fits that description better than her own bra? That's what the women like to get these days. Practical items plus luxury items. And I know bras are a luxury because my mom only wears them for special occasions. She's always saying how she 'can't wear out the only one I got' and all. Mrs. Marsh will have to wait for this little beauty until Santa comes to town.

Maybe I should have waited until Christmas was a little closer.

Oh, well. I couldn't miss the opportunity when it was presented! Taking a piss, examining the fine toiletries, seeing a silky black bra hanging from the shower… After I finished relieving myself, I grabbed the brassière and stuffed it in my parka next to Candice. It wasn't _stealing_ because I was going to gift it _back_.

I left the bathroom and skipped down the steps feeling good about what the day might bring. It always feels like a good day when you're gonna get breakfast. (Never take for granted the most important meal of the day) Stan and Kyle sat at the same corner of the dining table with sex-head and baggy eyes from their vigorous playing of joysticks into the early morning. Well…it was button-mashing really, but I wanted an excuse to say 'joystick'. It's funny.

I digress. Re-cap: breakfast, sex-head, joysticks… _Breakfast_. Yes, today was going to be a good day. I sat down at the table nearest to Stan, tousling the hair I'd seen him try so hard to comb this morning.

Stan batted me away, "Dude! That took me _like_-"

"_Like_, five firm downward strokes of a comb?" I said, completing his sentence. I ran my hands through his hair once more, shaping a peak. "You wear that dumb hat all day—I hardly think I've prevented that hat hair you seem to love, so no worries."

It really is a shame he hid that ashen field for stray fingers under that old hat. It's not as if he were going to go bald if he flaunted his sexy locks. Get him a _girlfriend_. Or a boyfriend, because who am I to pick and choose sides? Though, it would probably be the former. As much as I know the young Marsh kid, he's not gay. Nope. Curious, but _not_ gay.

Mrs. Marsh had served breakfast foods. Eggs. Orange Juice. Toast. And even though she said, "Help yourselves" I don't think she appreciated my helping myself to most of everything. Anything that wasn't on someone's plate. And even then, I ended up picking off of Stan's plate when he wasn't looking. However, he was _always _looking, so I took it from right in front of his face. I'm glad I don't bruise easily.

I guess I wasn't prepared to stay the night. Of course I wasn't prepared. Mrs. Marsh seemed to notice that particular fact upon passing by my chair. I could hear her breathe in and then take that little cough people take after a getting nice big whiff of something rank. It's true. I haven't been able to maintain regular hygienic standards—the shower head fell off in our bathroom. Not much to do about that. So what if I didn't smell _Bounty Fresh_?

"Kenny, Hon?"

"Yes, Mrs. Marsh?"

"Um...did you forget to bring a change of clothes?"

"Yes, Mrs. Marsh." Forget? I only have one change. The change I'm wearing.

The woman gave a sympathetic shake of her head. Ugh. Where was she going with this?

"How about Stan lends you something to wear for today? I'll gladly wash _those_ for you." I love how she didn't even care to call them clothes anymore. Like they were just nasty, slices of slop stitched up and rotting while I wore them on my body. There's no point in brooding though. If only I didn't have such a sensitive radar for bullshit. Sensitive, but not sensitive about it. I don't mind so much. It's not a bag of SunChips either. Like, if I were to choose between a condescending parent and a bag of chips, I'd pick the chips.

But I will admit it is an interesting offer. Me? Wearing Stan's clothes?

"Do you have an extra jacket for me to use today then?"

"Of course we do. Stan? Can you get Kenny some fresh clothes to wear for the day?" Stan's brow creased as he was probably imagining what clothes he could possibly offer me, but Mrs. Marsh was persistent, nudging him to the stairs. "Stan, please?" She looked at me. "And feel free to take a shower."

But she didn't really mean 'hey, feel free to clean yourself up out of courtesy, I bet you'd like to shower,' it meant, 'your smell offends me so, for the love of God, please, please, _please_ take a shower—oh, and don't use anything but the soap, that Head&Shoulders stuff is expensive'. I don't take offense though. I mean, if I took everything in my life that was offensive and became offended by it...I would have to beat the shit out of _myself_. I am ludicrously offensive, so I like to give other people some slack once in a while. And hey, I get a shower. I mean, I'm not _uncivilized_. I don't like smelling like me either.

"Kyle? Would you accept my invitation for you to join me for a morning shower?"

"_No_, Kenny."

What a tease. "Fine, fine...I'll be off on my own then."

I gave Mrs. Marsh a clean-cut grin and took her dear son under my arm as we both made way up the stairs. Well, Stan was being flippant again and kept brushing off my tender half-embrace.

"Arms _off _me, Kenny."

"Stan, are you going to pick out something nice and scandalous for me to wear? Something like...just a night-shirt? Then I could pretend I lived my fantasy—a night of hot, sweaty—"

"_Kenny!_"

"—yes! Just imagining the result...I want to imagine the hot _mess _we'd be in the morning! And then, left with nothing but a t-shirt..."

Stan groaned, but not in the good 'sexy' way, but in the bad 'ugh, get over it' kinda way, and he shoved me sideways into the bathroom. He needs to lighten up.

So, I started to strip as people do for showering. I don't know what I'm going to do about the bra or Candice...I unloaded them from my parka, stuffing them in the sink. Then, I made a neat pile of scrunched up clothing, kicking it to the corner. Now, before any showering could be done, I had to check myself out. You know—I think it's some sort of narcissistic tendency. Well, maybe not. I can't resist taking a peek of myself in front of a mirror though. I rolled my head, looking at the underside of my neck. I made a half-twist, looking between my shoulder blades. I leaned in close, ruffling my hair and watching the specks of dirt fall onto my sink full of bra and porn. I really _did _need to wash up. I was actually streaked with sweat and dirt...I wasn't that dirty usually, was I?

There was a knock at the door. "Kenny. I've got clothes for you."

I grabbed a towel off the little shelf above their toilet, wrapping it around my waist before answering. I mean, I may have _used _to enjoy giving strangers a little 'surprise' in the bathroom stalls, but I'm no exhibitionist. I have my decency.

Swinging the door open and leaning into the door frame, I allowed Stan to get a nice view. He didn't seem to appreciate it though, handing me the change without as much as a twitch. He really _was_ getting used to it all, wasn't he?

"Thanks."

"Yup." Stan smiled briefly, handing me what I would be wearing for the day and then plodded down the steps. _Sigh_. I shut the door, hopping into the shower and shocked myself with a douse of cold water. Scrambling, blinded by the water, I tried to fix the temperature. Shit, it was cold... Finally, the water adjusted to something more comfortable. It's nice. I stood under the spray, eyes closed, memorizing the feel of the low pressure drizzle. You know, I bet it's ironic for such a filthy guy to love a good shower. I don't _like_ being filthy though. If I could manage to stay clean, I would. I would stay here under the shower forever. But, that wouldn't be logical, would it? I mean—how would I go to school? Ha.

I took time lather every place I could manage, who knew when I'd get the chance again? I am actually flesh-colored, did you know that? Not the color of dirt. Funny how life is. I shut the water off, doing a nice doggy-style shake to dry off. I could have used that towel...oh, well. I picked up the laundry Stan had brought me, shaking out the shirt first. An all black top, with bright yellow font: Real Men Wear Spandex. Heh.

I slipped the shirt over my head, crouching over the rest of the clothes. He even got me some boxer shorts—how _sweet_. I slipped those on too. Mm, nice clean clothes feel good on nice clean skin. And a set of those shredded jeans? I held them up to the light just to make sure. Sure enough. There were those kind of jeans with the worn out knees. Has Stan wore these before? I dunno. I tried sticking the one leg in, but my foot got caught in one of the holes. Damn holes...I lost my balance.

It wasn't worth it to get back up. I struggled on the floor, kicking my feet up to get myself into Stan's pants. I like that phrasing. Either way, After a bit of squirming and arching, I was fully dressed and ready to go. Standing, I went to check myself out again. Hm. I look even better when cleaned up. Maybe I can swoon my dear pal Stan? No, no...if only.

So, time to get back to the ol' salt mine, right? The daily grind? I stuffed the bra and mag up my shirt, halfway held by the waist of my pants. It was a bit of an uncomfortable fit, but where else was a supposed to keep them?

"Stan~!" I leapt down the stairs, about three steps at a time, running into the wall at the bottom. Kyle was the only one around, looking at me his emerald eyes wide.

"Dude, what are you doing?"

I made a show of my outfit, draping one arm over my head and drastically threw a hip to the side with my other arm resting alongside it. "So, how do I look? Stunning? Like, I've just gotten though with a rough night in the sack with Stan?" I made a caressing motion up and down my body, watching as Kyle's eyes followed. "I had to wear whatever Stan had lying around, considering the condition we put my clothes in last night..."

"Shut up, Kenny. That isn't funny."

Kyle is looking a little under the weather. A bit more irritated than usual. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Kyle stuffed his arms into his sleeves like those Russian gals with the fur thingies that I don't know the name of.

"Kenny, where'd you leave those clothes of yours?" Mrs. Marsh asked, walking in from the kitchen.

"In your bathroom, Mrs. Marsh. And thank you for your kindness."

"Oh, of course." Mrs. Marsh smiled like a lot of mothers do, with a kind of forced smile—but well meaning nonetheless. She slowly made her way up the stairs calling, "Stan? Have you gotten your friend a coat yet?"

"Yeah, Mom..." Stan reentered at the top of the stairs, a muddy green sack of fabric in his arms. He caught sight of me, papping down the steps while throwing the jacket to me over the banister. I quickly flipped and zipped it up, and tried my best to secretly adjust my carry-ons.

"What are you hiding up your shirt?" Kyle asked as we all made way out the door and toward the bus stop.

"_Nothing_..."

He gave a wry stare. He really has a stick up his ass today, doesn't he? Why so serious?

"_Candice_..." It was at least half-true.

It wasn't worth enough effort to pick up our feet, so the three of us lazily shuffled through the ankle-deep snow, leaving a trail like three fat snakes escaped from Stan's basement. Damn, the pants he gave me were already soaked. It's cold and the wind has the same amount of bite as last night. I tightened up the windbreaker coat, wrapping my arms around my middle to keep warm.

"Shit, Stan. You hoping I'd die a slow and freezing death today?"

Stan's brow raised, his next breath smoky in the cold air. "Huh? I thought you said something like...'pick out something nice and scandalous for me to wear'?"

_What? _I looked him in the eye. Was he being serious? Stan looked back while blowing into his hands and washing them in the warmth. He cracked soon. Stan broke into a charming grin, giggling with bright rosy cheeks. It made me laugh too. Damn, the cold weather made him look _good_. He's such a good kid—it kills me.

"I don't get it..."

I looked over to my left now. Did Kyle say something? Kyle marched along, a little more flustered than usual. And what was with that scowl?

"You okay buddy?" I wrapped an arm around his shoulder in a half-teasing, half-concerned gesture.

"Get _off _me, Kenny!" Kyle snapped, shoving me a bit harder than usual.

I was shocked as I looked up at him from on the ground. Kyle was red, chewing his bottom lip and staring at the ground like it like it told him to suck a dick.

"Dude, what was that for? He was just asking if you were okay," Stan chided.

Kyle breathed heavily, smoke puffing out of his nose like a train engine. Stan reached to help me up, but Kyle interrupted, finally speaking. "I don't get it. If you're gay, then why do you carry around regular porn? Like, with girls in it?"

"Gay?"

"I mean, you keep bringing porn into everything. It just gets kind of tiring. I don't know... It's been bothering me—"

"Wait, wait, wait, wait," I held up a hand to silence Kyle's word splurge. "First things first—gay porn is derogatory toward men of all ages." I stood myself up, so I wasn't in such a compromising position. "Second—I'm not gay. I'm not _anything._ Labels, labels, labels...they're only an excuse to discriminate against others based off a single trait. I'm more than gay. I'm..." God, this is kinda preachy and I'm gonna hate myself for finishing... "me."

Oh boy. That was me just saying that, wasn't it? I'll never live it down...and poor Stan. He had to endure it all as an awkward bystander of Kyle's weirdly placed sexual issue or whatever this is. He's never mentioned it before. This was totally unprovoked.

"So..." There wasn't much left to add to that now, was there? "We should make it to school. All that class business—I hear you guys are into that."

The pick up after that was slow-moving. Kyle was quiet as the grave, Stan kept having to look over at Kyle to check if he was alright, and I was like the talentless comedian on open mike night, bombing it, yet the poor guy keeps trying. You think it'd be best for everyone if he just gave up and got off the stage, but he's still got fifteen more minutes of material and he's desperate to get out a single laugh. That's me. So while I was living that little nightmarish episode, waiting in the cold at the bus stop, Cartman decided to come along a make the day oh so much better.

"Guys, guys, guess what?" he called, chest heaving in his obesity. He stopped to huddle with our group, rubbing his palms together. "Guess what _I _got yesterd—"

"No one gives a shit about whatever new toy you have," Kyle growled, eyes glazed with a new kindled hatred. Oh, there he was, the scape goat...

Cartman's face contorted with anger. "Fuck you, Kyle! Yes you do care, and I know you're fuckin' _jealous_!"

"No, I'm not. I just think whatever the hell you've got is a waste of my time to hear about, because everything you get is fucking _lame_."

"No, _you're _lame, Kyle!"

"I don't give a _damn _what you think!"

"Fuck you, Kyle! _Fuck you!_"

Cartman was spittling and frothing at the disrespect, and Kyle was probably getting some sort of satisfaction from it, 'cause he was still swearing like a sailor. It was kind of sad. I don't know what's up with Kyle...he hasn't argued with Cartman like this since we were kids. He usually resorts to condescending remarks that Cartman doesn't understand. He learned to be _passive_ with his anger. Who flipped the switch, I do not know, but man it's been a while. Kyle doesn't usually go overboard.

Stan finally took his usual stand, trying to calm down Kyle. I decided to whisper sweet-nothings to Cartman(in the form of blackmail), and together Stan and I were able to pacify the crowd into a low grumble as the bus pulled up.

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**I love reviews and every bit of is more inspiration! Thank you for reading!**


	4. Where's the Irony?

******Oh, more writing! I've just been in the mood I suppose. I guess that's because I don't really have any other fic projects going on. Whoohoo**

**[Did some editing again. Excellent.]**

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**Chapter 4: Where's the Irony?**

"We should talk."

"No. We shouldn't." Kyle was keeping his voice in check, but I still had to tread lightly, not to push him over the edge he was teetering on. I motioned toward the librarian making sure he remembered where he was before I continued.

"Yeah, we should," I murmured. "You're not actin' right."

"I'm _fine_."

"___Are_ you?"

Kyle set his pencil down heavily, closing the book he was copying from. Economics.

"I mean, did something happen? You were fine last night."

Kyle kept his voice low, "I am _fine, _Kenny. Now, if you'd just leave me alone—"

He wasn't going to listen to me any time soon under these conditions. I stood quickly, dragging Kyle's arm into the air as I went, gathering the librarians attention.

"Mrs. Sueets? Me and Kyle both have to use the bathroom, is it alright if we leave right now?"

Mrs. Sueets looked up from behind her counter. She kinda looks like a mouse. Her eyes are small and black—her hair short and white, and she has wrinkles too. She is pretty quiet, and a lot of kids ignore the rules of the library because she's so easily pushed over. If it were any other student, they would have walked out without a second thought. I couldn't do that to poor Mrs. Sueets, so here I was, raising my hand and asking permission. Like the goddamn poster-child of a good student. Of course, Mrs. Sueets hardly could resist allowing us. I don't think I've ever seen her tell a kid, 'no' in my life.

I was able to get Kyle to his feet despite his protests, he didn't struggle too much, but he still resisted. Instead of a smooth exit, every few moments I had to jerk him a bit further forward, and once we were in the hallway, he started to speak up.

"Just leave me alone, Kenny. I have to do my work."

I dragged him toward the bathrooms.

"Kenny, leave me alone! I was ___tired_this morning—I didn't get enough sleep. I'm sorry. I was being an ass. I'm sorry that I pushed you down, so leave me alone..."

He was finally behaving, going limp in his arms as we walked to the end of the hall. I glanced over at Kyle, smiling a bit at his confusion, before opening the door to the staff bathroom.

"I'm not gonna hurt you Kyle, don't look so worried."

I swung him in ahead of myself, closing the door and locking us both in. I am grateful that someone is at the least willing to clean the staff restroom, and I know it isn't the custodians because—actually—I don't think our school _has _custodians. Still haven't seem one. Maybe they're an endangered species. Either way, the smell of a sour toilet wouldn't add props to my situation, so I had to choose someplace mildly managed and with locks.

Kyle stood in the middle of the room, hands shoved into his pockets while he stared at the little cabinet topped with Lysol and a Kleenex box.

"So...are you gonna tell me what's wrong now?"

Kyle and I are pretty close on our own, believe it or not. I mean, we have our differences, but when we're alone together we get along fine. After bullshitting it for about an hour, he can really open up. He talks about things he wouldn't dare share with anyone. That's like a lot of my relationships though. I don't fully understand it, but because they believe I'm the lowest of the low...it's a comfort for them. They trust that whatever _they_ have to confess...I've done something worse. I think it lessens the guilt. I wouldn't know though. If I'm the lowest, there's nowhere lower for me to go. (That's never been an issue for me however—I can go to anybody, because they'd expect that from me either way.) I know a lot about everyone. All their secret shames. It's a good thing I'm not corrupt... Anyway, Kyle was going to open himself up to me again before he ended up hurting someone more important than me.

Kyle posed nonchalantly trying to keep an airy tone. "There's nothing wrong. Why are we here?" He still wouldn't look me in the eye.

"Dude, stop trying to look tough. It's just me. Just _sleazy_ Kenny who has done worse things than you ever could have, even just last week." Well, actually, the worst I did last week was skipping a few days of school. I was making a holiday of it. 'Kenny Takes a Nap Day'.

He cleared his throat. "It's nothing."

So, he was going to try to play this out, even with no one around? Oh well, I knew what would sooner make him talk rather than trying to slowly prod it out of him. I flipped the switch, and the room went dark.

I walked blindly forward, hoping he didn't decide to move from where I'd last seen him. I felt ahead, and there he was. I placed my hands on his shoulders, walking him over to the wall, so it didn't feel like we were standing in the middle of nothingness. There was a single sniff and I could feel as his hands curled around my upper arms.

"Care to indulge my selfish curiosity, Kyle?"

"Did that thing really happen? You know? In the bathroom."

Oh, no. Confession time already? "Yes... But _nothing_ happened outside of your losing consciousness. I promise."

"I know that. That's not what was bothering me. Not that I'm bothered."

"Of course."

Kyle shifted a bit under my hands, leaning his weight against the wall.

"Do you actually like guys like you pretend to?" His voice was heavy with something grave.

"I don't pretend, Kyle. What you see is what you get."

"Kenny...I think I might too."

_ Sigh_. Not _this _talk. Why is it that every guy seems to have a fear that they like other guys?

"You _don't_ like guys."

"But, I think I do!" They always _did _think so at first.

"Kyle, you're not gay."

"But—"

I always was the bearer of the 'good' news. I'm glad that I smell decent this time. He, like the others, struggled to get away as I gave him a real kiss. I make sure they all get a good taste, holding them in lip lock for at least six seconds. And trust me, that is virtually _forever_ for a guy who doesn't enjoy it. I buried my hands deep in his curls, forcing his mouth into mine. It was dry and chapped, but immensely satisfying. I have to admit, it was goddamn arousing. 4...5...6... I let go, and I'm pretty sure Kyle's head hit against the wall with the force he was using to try to pull away.

"Congratulations. You don't like boys," I said in dry exultation.

"Get _away_." Kyle jabbed me in the side, causing me to reel backwards to recover. Goddamn, it's like his fist is made out of wet cement. I half-heartedly nursed my bruising rib, rubbing it gently through my shirt. There was a small sound of his sliding down the wall.

"No need to get pissy, my friend. I was only doing you a service in proving your 'straightness'. And 'cause you're such a good sport about it, it's free of charge with the added bonus of skipping that experimental phase in college." Hm. I like that pitch. Maybe, I could make a living off that? Oh. Nope. I think that's already a pretty big market...'Cause I'm pretty sure that if I sold myself to...yup. I'm pretty sure that's the same pitch as prostitution.

"That didn't make anything ___better__,_Kenny..."

"What? You still think you like guys after that? Usually that's the end all move..."

"You've done this to others?"

"Mhm. But like, only to people I knew. And I also was _positive_ that they were 99% straight."

"Ninety-nine?"

Look at that. We're having a conversation at last. "Well, It's my theory that everyone is at least, 1% gay. You know...gay for that one special girl or guy. In _this_ day and age there are still a lot of people who would criticize and look down on you for being gay, but if you ever met someone of the same-sex, and you loved them despite what everyone says...I'd say if you found that one gay-partner that made you not give a shit—_that's _a guaranteed soul mate. Tons of people settle one day, with their standard being, "oh I'm a guy, you're a girl—let's get married". It's so easy to settle, because that's what's normal—so many settle without finding their soul mate. I'm just saying, it's easier to tell a soul mate if they oppose your usual standards, because then you know it's_ real_."

"Are ___you_99% straight?"

"With ___my_ philosophies? No. I'd have to say I am at 50-50...which actually isn't the best situation. That gives me double the chance toward settling for the sake of settling, because I already don't give a shit. I'd have to _really _go out of my way to know I have a soul mate. Like, marrying a dog or a box of doughnuts."

Kyle let out an amused breath of air. "I didn't know you were such a _romantic_, Kenny. Do you have any special doughnuts in mind?"

"I _do _have a thing for the kind with coconut sprinklings..." Kyle laughed aloud this time, and I smiled. At least he wasn't as high-strung anymore. "So, are you still worried about being a homo_sex_ual?"

A sigh. "I dunno..."

"Hm. Well if the 'supreme kiss attack' didn't work," I sat down across from him. "I guess we actually have to ___talk_ about your problems. So, tell me. What prompted this anyway?"

"Well," I could hear him moving and adjusting himself in the dark. The floor _was_ pretty uncomfortable. "After hearing what you had to say..."

"Mhm?"

"I might have realized my 1%."

"Your 1%? Like, you like a guy?"

"I...I think so."

"And are you sure you like him?"

"I don't know. Maybe? I mean...I might just be confused."

"...is that why you haven't been eating? How long has this been bothering you?"

"I don't know. I haven't been keeping track..."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier? I could have helped you—"

"It was embarrassing, Kenny! And-and how am I supposed to bring that up? I couldn't!"

"Who _is _it?" I ran a mental list through my head, trying to pick out any hits. There wasn't much in the pickings that I would really consider Kyle's 'type'. There's no one who really suits him.

Kyle breathed out again, his anxiety loud and clear. "Well. It's..."

"Who?"

"…" He whispered a name.

"What? Who?"

Kyle breathed out again. Anxiety.

"Kyle, you have to—"

"_Stan,_ _alright_? I'm pretty sure I have a gay crush on my best friend and I hate myself for it, alright? I like Stan. Stan Marsh. Stan. Goddamn fucking, Stan."

Oh, no.

Kyle was breathing less labored now, probably relieved he'd gotten that off his chest. He, however, did not know what I was sure _I _knew. Stan Marsh was not gay. Neither is Kyle, but that's not the point I'm trying to make. Stan is _not _gay, but he_ is _curious. He is curious and a good guy—a _terrible _combination.

Stan would likely never _consider _Kyle as a possible romantic partner. He doesn't feel that special toward Kyle. Even worse though is that if Kyle told him, he would be alright with that. Stan is such an open and considerate guy, he would even try to love Kyle back. But in the end...it wouldn't work out. I can see the whole relationship right before my eyes...and Kyle would only get himself hurt.

"What?"

I looked up and didn't really see anything in the darkness. "What?"

"What have you got to say about it?"

"You want me to _say _something about it?" I really didn't want to say anything about it. It made my guts feel spoiled. It's like that moment when you find out the tooth-fairy isn't real.

"Well, ___you_were the one who asked me to tell you who! Isn't it rude to not respond?"

Crap. "Okay. I'm proud of you for taking the first step."

"And?"

"And...thank you?" I still had to figure out how to explain things.

"Why are you thanking me?"

"I don't know what you want me to say!"

"Tell me what to do! You know more about this stuff than I do."

"Afraid not. Remember? I don't have my 1%."

"Well, don't you have some sort of advice?"

"You want my advice?"

"Yeah."

"My ___honest_advice?"

"_Yeah_."

"Well, in my excellent knowledge...if you _told _Stan, I think he'd go along with it."

"_What?_"

"Stan would date you."

"Really?"

He was starting to sound hopeful...this sucked.

"_Yes_, really... but it wouldn't last. I can't see it lasting. I'm sorry...but he doesn't see you as a romantic possibility."

"What? If he doesn't see me as a possibility, then why would he date me?"

"Out of kindness and curiosity..."

"Then why _tell _me he would say yes? Why not just tell me he's not interested!?"

"You wanted me to be honest..."

"How do _you _know? There might be a chance. Things could work out, even if _you _don't think they would!" Oh boy. He was getting carried away now. Damn him and his fiery red-headed blood.

"I'm not trying—_Kyle_, please don't take this the wrong way..."

"How could I?" He was standing up now. "How could I take that the wrong way? It's not as if you were dangling the possibility in front of my eyes while telling me I can't have it. You said he'd be okay with it."

"Yes, but he wouldn't actually like you! He wouldn't take things as seriously as you would. Love hurts. It hurts like you took a syringe and squirted lemon juice into your veins! Not lime, not apple or banana,_ but lemon_. It hurts like hell, Kyle."

"You know, your metaphors are _really _stupid." I goddamn know my metaphors are stupid, but I don't know what else to say!

He opened the door and the light was too bright.

"___Kyle__._"

He spoke with his back to me. "I don't hate you for telling me what you think, but I would feel pathetic for not trying while knowing that there's a chance. You know?"

"Yeah...I know."

"Thanks for listening."

That's all I'm ever good for. I didn't expect him to be so eager... "Oh, of course. I'll be here of you need me."

"On the bathroom floor?" Ok, that was a little funny. Kyle tuned around an smiled as the bell began to ring for our next class. His smile faded, and he looked toward the library. "I've gotta go pick up my stuff. See you, Kenny."

He flipped the lights back on before walking briskly away and letting the door swing shut.

I chewed the gum I had picked off earlier, making my way to study hall. Mrs. Applebee had caught me in the act of chewing—then I was saved by the bell. I don't think Kyle mentioned anything to Stan yet, but he was eyeing him all of last hour. I hope this doesn't drag out...I don't think I can stand to watch those longing glances anymore. His eyes probably playing out a bunch of dumb fantasies in his brain. Every once on a while, I'd see him swallow and smack his lips a few times. Just like when he used to blush about the bathroom stall, I wanted to climb into his brain and see what was playing out.

I was late again. Not that it mattered so much in this case, the first half of the hour is virtually unsupervised because the guy in charge uses this time as a smoke break. I know, because I've invited myself to go out with him and smoke a few too. I'm not actually a big smoker, but I still have my moments. Tastes nasty as shit. Still, I do.

Let's see. I bet you're curious about who is in this study hall. Well, let me see... First, there was Butters. Butters, dear sweet Butters. And there was Cartman. Jimmy, Timmy, and Tweek. Debra, Sue, and Clarice. Some dude named 'Clark'. Everyone hung out in their own respected divisions. I bet Cartman expected that I would just go over and talk with him. I actually don't care for him all that much though, so I decided not to. Oh yeah, I'm totally living life on the edge.

I walked over to sit with Mr. Butters Stotch instead. He was such a cutie. I played with his hair for a moment, before sitting backwards in the desk ahead of him. "Hey, Butters."

Butters visibly swallowed. "Hey, Ken."

_ Ken_. He was the only one who called me Ken. Ken. Like, the ideal for the perfect man in the Barbie world. That's me. Dear ol' Ken. Funny ol' Ken. I am totally not a 'Ken'.

"What'cha up to, Stotch?" Aren't I so hip with the trends? Calling him by his last name? I'm a regular Slim Shady.

"Nuh-thin. Just-just doodling a picture."

I craned my head trying to see, and he closed the drawing notebook. "Well, that doesn't sound very fun..."

"No, it's fun," Butters replied matter-of-factly. His eyes were a stormy grey, and just as cold.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I suppose I was wrong."

Butters eyes were reading my chest.

"What is...spandex?"

"Spandex? Oh...it's like what the girls wear while playing volleyball. You ever watch the girls play volleyball?"

"No..." Of course he didn't. Butters lowered his voice now, prompting me to lean forward and hear what he had to say. "Does that shirt mean you like to wear girl-clothes then?"

"_What_?" My voice cracked through the room, drawing immediate attention. Butter's eyes widened, looking threatened by the sound. "No, no, no...this shirt it a joke. It's like...ironic. Do you understand irony?"

"Well, kinda. Shakespeare uses it a bunch. But I don't think you're using that kind of irony. Unless I knew that shirt was actually _made _of spandex while you thought it was a joke. That would be ironic."

Is it? I twisted the shirt around to look at the tag. 100% cotton. Alright. Well, it was almost ironic. "Nope. Just a regular shirt."

"Oh. Alright." Butters flipped up the corner and went back to his doodling as I readjusted my shirt face outright again.

"Butters, are you busy?"

He looked up again, eyes glassy with social ignorance. "Well, I'm _doodling._.."

"But other than that, you're free this hour? No homework?" Butters shook his head. I reached out, stroking the softness once again, twirling my finger through his bangs. "Well, we should hang out."

"When?"

"Well, right now."

"Aren't we already hanging out?"

"Not _really_," I said looking around at the surrounding company. "I mean we should hang out alone. So we can talk about more private things."

Butters blinked, thinking it over.

"Like...secrets?"

"Yeah, like secrets."

"Oh...well, where would we go? We're suh-posed to stay in the classroom."

"The teacher doesn't mind if we leave."

"How do you know for sure, Ken?"

"Oh, I leave all the time! He doesn't mind, really."

"Oh. Uh...I guess?"

"Fantastic!" I stood up, heading out the door. Butters was more cautious, sneaking quietly as though he were a part of the Scooby-Doo Gang. He was such a character...I don't know what to do with him sometimes.

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**Hi-fives for marrying a box of doughnuts? For spandex? For understanding irony? Any takers?**


	5. Camping Beneath The Fire Alarms

**Well, I went over a title reconstruction after I realized there were like, hundreds of fanfics with the title "Fireworks" and even a South Park one...with Kenny as the main character...published a year before mine. So, that was it. None of that. So, new title! (I'm Trying To Be Sincere) because in this fic, I believe Kenny's goal is to be true to himself. However, it's also hidden in parenthesis because he doesn't know how to communicate that it isn't a joke or an act. Kenny acts as he feels is true to himself, yet he allows others to think it's a joke while wishing on the inside that they knew. That it wasn't, "Just Kenny". He wants them to know, (I'm being sincere).**

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**Chapter 5: Camping Beneath The Fire Alarms**

There are plenty of places in the school, I can guarantee, that you will_ not_ be disturbed by others. For example: the janitor closet, because really—does this school even _have _janitors? _I've_ never seen one, so why do we have all their closets? There are _plenty_ of places to hide—many of them with over a 98% chance of never being discovered (all percentages are entirely a personal guess-timage). However, those hiding places are usually dark and smelly and cramped. That is my reasoning. I never hide where there is no chance that I will be found—with _my_ luck, I'll end up dying there and my body will rot for months until the smell is potent enough to attract a search. So, most usually, I camp out in one of the abandoned classrooms (there were cutbacks and about half the teachers lost their jobs and the other half was expected to do twice the amount of work—there were many rooms emptied and left to gather dust). The bad thing about camping in a classroom is that chances of getting caught are about 50-50. And by that, I mean you're either caught or you aren't. I haven't really done studies on it or anything—but I'm not usually disciplined severely upon discovery either way—just a warning, and I'm sent back to class.

I didn't have a particular room in mind at the time, so I spun around, watching Butters' silly little walk. His arms were wired stiff, palms flat and karate-chop like, and his knees locked.

"You okay, Butter-ball?" I couldn't help but grin at his antics.

"Yeah." His voice was a forced whisper, loud as a regular speaking voice so there really was no need.

"Just so ya know, I think it's ghosts that're invisible, not robots or zombies or whatever _you're_ trying to mimic."

"What?"

"That walk is ridiculous is what I mean, and it won't lower your chances of getting caught any less. Don't be so tense, you're not gonna get in trouble."

Butters finally noticed his own rigidity, however in trying to correct himself the walk became even more unnatural as he walked with overly loose limbs that swung with each step. It's my own fault for making him conscious of it...should've just let him be a robot.

I finally ended up backing into an old science room. There had been two at one point, but I already explained that whole budget thing. There were long black tables still lined up and ready for class (the kind that are like, chemical proof and fire-proof or whatever?). Lord, they're expensive. It has actually crossed my mind to steal one and sell it for some cash—I guess it's never been worth it in the end. The posters were down. The cabinets emptied. The chairs cleared out to be used in the other rooms. I walked to the back, snapping up the black roller shades and letting some light in.

Butters stuck in the doorway, a timid boy.

I cracked the most charmingly devilish smile I could manage. "Will you walk into my parlor?"

"What?" he squawked, most likely understanding the reference.

"Nothing, nothing, nothing...I swear I won't hurt you! Just get _in _here!"

Butters entered, walking over and sitting his butt up on the table before me.

"Well, what...what did you wanna talk about, Ken?"

"Girls clothes."

"_Girls clothes_? Why'd we need to leave if that's all we're gonna talk 'bout? I thought we were gonna talk about a secret."

"Oh, but it _is _a secret." I was still supporting my earlier spoils, and as I untucked them from under my shirt, both Candice and Mrs. Marsh's bra fell to the floor.

Butters shrinked backwards as though it were a big, floppy, _detention slip_. (Did you get the impression that I was going to say something inappropriate? Because, that's what I was aiming for). "Aw, Butter-ball...you've seen adult material _before_."

"Well, yeah, Ken. But...but why's it here?"

"It was a gift... You want?" I picked it up, holding it out to him, making sure it was open to the Candice I've become so fond of.

"No...nuh-no, thank you..."

I tossed it on his lap, watching his flinch. Oh, I am such a cruel person...

"Take a look while ya can then, _Butter-ball_."

There was a lewd crinkling as Butters instead closed the magazine and set it to the side. "I, uh, am fine with just that much. Um, thanks."

I knew that he wouldn't fall for it. Butters never fell to the same curiosities as the other boys. I held up the silky brazier. "How about this one, hm? Girls clothes."

Butters nodded, "Yeah, I know. My mom has a bunch..."

A bunch? Well, how _fancy-dancy_ for Mrs. Stotch. I guess s_ome _women can't afford to waste money on breast support as much as _Mrs. Stotch_ seems to. I tossed it to Butters again, who caught it this time, and placed it on top of the magazine.

"So, talk to me about girls clothes." I didn't really know how to begin the discussion, and I didn't care about it anyway, so I left it all to Butters to make it or break it.

"Uh...whut about them?"

"Anything." I didn't care.

"Oh. Okay. Um...they're...colorful."

"Continue." I wandered away, opening and closing the cupboards, looking for something entertaining. Maybe a model skeleton. Butters spoke to himself as I look. I'd be okay with anything. Pickled animals. A bug collection. A flask of hard liquor...(I've heard that this rooms teacher was an alcoholic) I was nearing the last set of drawers, pulling them out, and pushing them back in after they provided nothing new, when one became stuck. The drawer came out about a half-inch before jamming. I tugged a few times with just the one arm—that didn't get me anywhere. I repositioned myself, grabbing the handle with two hands, and leaned away with all my weight. Pull. _Pull_. _Pull_—and it broke loose. The drawer crashed to the floor, scaring the shit out of Butters in the process—he had to scramble to catch his balance when he nearly fell off the back of the table. His next instinct was to stare intently at the door, probably waiting to get caught.

"You're too jumpy, Butters. Whose around to hear? _Nobody_." Well, in retrospect, that was a frightening phrasing of words. Like a horror movie. No one is around to hear your screams... *insert crazy chainsaw murderer* Oh, well. I picked up the drawer, walking it back over and shoving it into place. "There she goes." I huffed with satisfaction.

I shuffled back toward Butters, kicking something in the process. Naturally, I had to figure out what it was. I leaned over and ended up picking up a book of matches. I thinks me found was what was wedged in the drawer? I opened the matches, looking inside. Four left. I ripped one out, craving for something to set on fire...not a whole lot left in the room to burn unless I wanted to commit arson.

"Butters, you know where there's some paper?"

Butters looked over, content now that no one had come to comprehend us. "Huh? Paper? What for?"

"To start a campfire of _course_."

Butters didn't look impressed. "Is it _important_?"

"Well, yeah. Everything I need is important!"

Butters searched his immediate radius, then picked up my magazine and offered it toward me, "Use this then."

Ouch. Butter-ball has developed one mean set of comebacks. He practically just told me off for owning the magazine in the first place. "You can't be serious. You want me to burn _Candice_?"

"Who is Candice?"

"She's the center-fold attraction! She's the only one who has ever_ truly _never judged me! And you're asking me to burn her? I never knew you were so absolutely heartless! Even _Kenny _needs affection and someone to listen to his complaints!" Butters began to look more conscious of his actions, and I could see his internal struggle over what he should do next. The poor fellow. He was growing little by little, but he wasn't there quite yet. He still wasn't very good at calling a bluff, and if you pressured him too much, he was easily broken. "Now, are you going to stop joking around and help me find some paper?"

Butters nodded, looking remorseful as he laid aside the Playboy and started looking through the cupboards with me. We found a teachers edition of Natural Science in the main desk, so that ended up our victim. Sitting in the back, we took turns shredding through the contents, creating a small pile of chapters. It was relaxing. I suppose I have a love for the sound of ripping paper. Next, I took the match that I had removed, striking it and watching the flame produced. Butters was obviously becoming a ball of nerves, barely breathing in bated breath. Alright, I admit I only said that because of all the b's. But he was still fidgety nonetheless.

"It's a damned shame that we didn't come across some marshmallows or something, right Butter-ball?" I tossed the match into the pile, watching the kindling take. Gee wiz, I was a regular boy scout being able to create a fire like this and all. Butters watched with a more relaxed curiosity now, seeing as the paper curled in on itself in a red glow. Enchanting. I fanned the flames with my hand, smiling lazily. I've never gone camping, but I don't think it'd be half bad if it were like this. The smoke was black and the ink smelled burnt. Oh—_crap_. I looked over, glaring at the fire detectors. It was never a good time to forget those when you were setting things on fire...

There was hardly a second after thought leading into the piercing shriek of an alarm. Lights flashed, and _gawd _that alarm was annoying! "We gotta put this out before we're caught!" I stood up, stomping out the god-damned fire that caused this god-damned mess, even though it was my own god-damned fault in the first place. Butters flinched away from the bits of flaming paper that burst out from under my foot each time I brought it down. "Get _up _Butters, what are you doing still lying there? Help me _out_." Butters babbled for a bit but got up and marched along, stamping out the only flame science has ever kindled for me. Like, literal kindling and metaphorical kindling. Yeah. Whatever.

Either way, the firemen would be arriving if there is no one to tell them otherwise. Crap, I've got to do the right thing or else I'll just get into _more_ trouble. "Butters, you deal with this—make sure to sweep up the evidence or whatever. I gotta run to the office and tell'em that the Home Ec. room burnt cookies or something..." Butters opened his mouth, probably to protest, but I wouldn't allow it. I hightailed it out of there, leaving the trusty Butters to the task.

There were already students filing into the halls, mostly grumbling about there being a drill and how much they hated the school's fire alarms. A few students held their ears shut, and another few walked slowly, as if to prove they weren't bothered by the nose at all. Coincidentally, I ended up seeing Kyle on my way and swatted him on the rear for good measure as I passed by. I didn't look back, but I could hear him voice his surprise, and that was good enough for me. Throwing on the breaks, I was able to merely walk the last few steps into the office. However, I was already beat. Mr. Bown who stood in front of the principal, rubbing the back of his head as he waved a cigarette around.

"I'm sorry, It hasn't been a problem before..."

"A problem before? Mr. Bown, are you implying that you do this often? Smoking while—"

Mr. Bown flung both his hands up as if to stop the train of thought, "No, not like _that_—"

Well, it seemed someone was already confessing, so I was pretty much out of trouble for now. I metaphorically tipped my hat off to Mr. Bown and his ridiculous name (I really want to call him Mr. Brown, but that's not his name after all). What a character. What a character indeed. So, before I was caught not following through on emergency procedures, I jogged back to the masses slowly filtering into the street. I caught up with Kyle again, nudging him and acting as though I'd been suffering the cold with him the entire time.

"Fire drills. What a _pain_, am I right?"

Kyle rolled his eyes, knowing full well that I was full of shit.

"No, no, no. I mean it. Who would schedule a fire drill in the middle of _this_ weather?"

"Bull_shit_, Kenny. I know this wasn't scheduled."

"Wow. What's with all the malice, friend?"

Kyle tightened the grip he had around himself, his bare arms prickling with goosebumps. "Did you have something to do with this or not?"

Straight to the point, hm? "Well, not that anyone knows. Apparently, Mr. Bown was smoking and he triggered the system..."

"Oh, I'm _sure _he was..."

"It's true! Just wait—they'll just cover it up over the speakers, saying that it was a drill. Just wait."

Soon enough, the speakers did crackle to life. "The fire drill is complete. Please, return to your designated classes. Please, return to your designated classes."

The entire student body abided with pleasure, most of them cold and in a hurry to return to a reasonable temperature. You know, if they all just did the _natural_ thing and huddle together for warmth, instead of each one having a bubble of pride that required them to hold it off on their own, the entire ordeal wouldn't have been all that bad. For example, I wrapped my arm around Kyle's waist, pulling him closer. It was a give and take. I got some of his heat, he got some of mine. Simple and cozy.

"So," I hummed, leaning my head into his. "Have you said anything to Stan yet?"

Kyle looked straight ahead, although he was still listening. Keeping his voice low, he responded with a curt, "No."

"When are you planning to?"

"Why do you need to know?"

"'Cause I'm nosy. I mean, this is a crazy wild step you're taking—neither of you will even know what to do with yourselves."

"Hm?" Kyle looked more concerned with what I was saying now, looking over at me with those sparkly, green gems of his. Mm...maybe not entirely green. More hazel. Still a handsome feature.

"Well," I continued, adoring the attention received. "What the hell is a relationship with another male? Can you even comprehend that? Do you even _understand _the mechanics that come along with that commitment? You can learn the basics of any hetero-relationship by watching the Lifetime channel long enough—and I can tell you, it is _not_ the same with a guy."

"It's not?"

"Hell, no! I mean...what were you gonna do? Buy Stan _flowers_ or something? Maybe some heart-shaped chocolates and a bed full of roses~?" I nuzzled my nose into his cheek, and he pushed me away.

"Shut up, Kenny. I wasn't gonna do _that_—that's stupid."

"Oh? So, you were gonna do _something_ then?"

"I wasn't gonna do anything, so stop asking." Kyle was growing more frustrated now. He's such a softie out in the light of day. How many times do I have to lock this kid in a dark bathroom before he grows a pair?

"You're not gonna do anything? You're going to suffer a one-sided love affair? It's not worth it, Bro. If that's your plan of action, it's best to move on. Meet yourself a nice girl. I'll even help look." Well, that's actually kind of ideal. I wish he wasn't such a hard-head about things. I wish he could give up without having to deal with regrets or heartbreak.

Kyle grimaced, and the sight was too amusing not to laugh. His nose always would form three perfect little creases on the bridge and his lip would curl in a bad impression of Elvis Presley. I sped ahead to enter the school first, feeling him catch up to shove me through the doors. "What that hell's so funny, _Kenny_?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" I turned around and rose my arms in gracious surrender. "It was nothing, really! It's just that, you looked so disgusted at the thought of meeting a girl! And I thought, 'What are you making _that _face for? Has a single male-crush converted Kyle to a meat-seeking missile?'."

"Aw, dude...gross. _Meat-seeking_?"

I laughed again, "I thought it was funny! _And _pretty clever! 'Heat-seeking,' 'meat-seeking'...that's genius!"

Kyle jabbed me with his elbow, right into the ribs. "That is _not _genius, Kenny. It's gross."

"Oh, don't act like a _saint_, Kyle! I believe it is _you _who hides from his best friend that you secretly _want to bone him_."

"I don't want to _bone _him! I don't want to _bone _anyone!"

"Oh, really?" I caught Kyle off guard, twisting fast and pinning him to the lockers. Nothing difficult for him to break out from and mostly for the effect of getting his undivided attention. "Are you implying that you can resist?"

"Resist?" He swallowed the word and I was temporarily mesmerized by his bobbing throat.

I was able to gain sense after a brief moment though, _"Resist._ You say you don't want it...but what if _he _wants it? Can you resist? Can you deny it then?" There was no response. Which was weird, if anyone haven't noticed, no response is not the typical Kyle Broflovski response. He just kinda stood there...not happy. So, I let him go and granted him his personal space again. I realized that I can get carried away with things and felt a flicker of embarrassment. "So, _yeah_. Lunch is in a few. I've got...to find someone. I'm so popular—it's crazy."

Oh, wow. I don't know why I hadta sound so lame right there. Wish I could just take that back. It's pretty hard to feign all that confidence when they don't play along. God, look at how easily I deflate. That die-hard comedian personality of mine...gets me nowhere. BUT. I _did _have a someone to find. I wonder if Butter-ball was still where I left him? I awkward ballerina pranced out of _that _situation.

I jogged back down the halls to the leftover science room, peeking inside. It was dark. Strolling to the back, there was nothing. No Butters, no ashes, no Candice, no bra. Where the hell did that kid run off to? Hm? I spun around, scouting the hallway. I suppose it was unreasonable to expect to see him immediately. I jogged again and peeked into the independent study room. He wasn't there either, but Mr. Bown was returned and sitting at his desk. I noticed Cartman wasn't there either. Not that I particularly cared, but he was hard to miss. Plus, I think to have an automatic "scan the area for Cartman" sense is a good thing. I could ask if Butters had come back. But, if he hadn't, I was surely going to be sucked into the black hole that was Mr. Bown's mood. Look at them. All silent, heads down, feigning work. If he caught that I was out in the hall, he'd threaten me with detention if I didn't take my seat immediately. Not as if detention is anything new.

However, upon contemplation, a lot of the punishments I've received were undeserved. A lot of the claims against me are unfair, and I think it's just an image thing now. Putting in the raggedy delinquent is like a power symbol. Every teacher has claim to sending me off _plenty_ of times. I bet they even have a tally board somewhere—it happens so damn often, it can't be for anything but a game. Their excuses come in a wide range of decorative bullcrap, from missing assignments to putting gum under the desks (Even though I'm the one scraping it off, not putting it on). Come to think of it, even less deserving, yet nearly always serving time with me, was Butters. The poor kid meant no harm. The teachers here are just a bunch of bullies—just as bad as most kids here. I'm not hypocrite. I know I treat Butter-ball less than appropriately, but I at least acknowledge that he doesn't deserve it. The teachers around here are actually delusional enough to believe that sending us to detention is going to help us... I'd shake my head in sympathy for them if they weren't screwing over the next generation.

So, I still wasn't anywhere near a decision. However, it was clear once the bell rang.

I was going to lunch.

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**Another chappy done and off the press! Thank you for any support you have, it's an inspiration to continue writing!**


	6. Nerves Like A Quadriplegic

**Oh, wow. And since when has this become so dramatic? Oh, well I guess since I made it so. Who knew. Oh~ I just can't help it. It's fun in it's own way. (For me to write that is)**

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**Chapter 6: Nerves Like A Quadriplegic **

"Why don't you bring your own lunch? Don't you have to eat like...kosher?"

Kyle looked up from his full tray, shrugging slightly, "I don't need it. Not hungry."

Cartman leaned across Clyde, grabbing a fist full of Kyle's fish sticks, "I call 'em!"

"God _dammit _Cartman, why don't you _ask_ first?" Kyle growled. Clyde stared flatly at his try, with fish sticks thoroughly flattened by Cartman's elbow. His eyes rolled, lacking will to fight, taking and adding them to Cartman's growing pile.

"You said you weren't hungry, Kyle. _I'm_ just saving children in Africa by not wasting food."

"That's not how you use that argument..." Stan commented, smiling prematurely at what was on everybody's mind.

Kyle, of course, was glad enough to voice it, "The children in Africa would suffer less of you wasted a bit of food. They're all starving because _your_ fatass is eating everything."

"Fuck you, Kyle!" Cartman leaned in front of Clyde again, grabbing Kyle's orange and the rest of the fish sticks off his try. Once Eric leaned back into his own seat, Clyde was left to look at his tray again. The rest of his fish sticks were ruined. He put them on Cartman's tray again, scowling as he was left to instead bite into his apple.

I felt sorry for Clyde, but I wasn't going to offer anything off _my _tray. School lunch was usually the most nutritious meal of my day (aside from those days I'm able to hitch a sleepover with my more 'well-off' friends), and I wasn't going give it away. Aside from _that_ little exchange, conversation was bland. Token and Craig were planning to go out and see a movie later. Not in an intimate way or anything. Just a group of guys going to see another action flick. They were planning to ask a few others to come along too. Clyde was trying very hard to be involved in the movie plan, however Cartman was being an overbearing asshole and interrupting him. I tried to converse with the poor guy a bit, but I was no help. Cartman has an insatiable craving for attention that none can quench fully, but with one sacrifice, he is content with making only _their_ life miserable. I could see it in his eyes—Clyde was clenching that apple core tight enough to strangle a small animal. I was kinda waiting for the moment where he would just cut his losses and shove it down Cartman's fat esophagus, but it was never to be.

Also, the most shy-baby exchanging of glances were between Kyle and Stan. It was like watching a tennis match. First, Kyle to look while he thought Stan wasn't paying attention. Stan would glance up, and Kyle would look down. Stan would look down briefly and then look up again. Kyle would try to ignore it but then he would look up too. Stan would look down. The cycle continued. Gawd, the tension was tangible. Or, maybe only_ I_ could sense it because I knew how Kyle felt while stealing a bashful eyeful of Stanley Marsh.

I nudged Stan, deciding to involve myself for a length. I don't know _why_. It's just something I would expect me to do. (If I didn't cause a little trouble every once in a while, I started to develop a rash and I get this really panicky feeling. Kinda like a withdrawal. Except, not as bad.)

"Hm?" Stan looked at me, and I looked at Kyle. They were both interested.

"Come're," I motioned for Stan to lean in and lend an ear, watching Kyle all the while. I shielded my mouth so he couldn't read my lips and whispered, "I'd like to play a trick on Kyle, but I need your help." Stan nodded. "I need you to act confused. Look at Kyle. Now, try to look a bit uncomfortable. Look away, like, at the ceiling or something. Try to avoid eye contact. Now, quietly ask me, 'really?'"

"...really?" He was such a nice actor. Followed my instructions word for word.

Kyle was looking harder at me now. "What are you guys talking about?" He was trying to sound casual but I could sense his apprehension. I could stop now if I wanted to. If I stopped, Kyle would never have the nerve to tell Stan. Nobody would be hurt. Except, Kyle. He'd have to suffer that terrible affliction of a one-sided affection. And I wouldn't be able to help. Kyle asked again about what we were talking about. He was starting to look desperate. He really _really _likes Stan. Right now, I find myself with two options. I can back off, let Kyle lose his nerve, and eventually hate himself for not having said anything. Or, I could say something and let the fates decide. I really don't think Stan would or can fully commit. Not to Kyle at least. Not that he wouldn't _try_. But, what do I know? Nothing is set in _stone_. I can try to believe in chances. If things fall through, Kyle can hate me. That would suck balls, but I don't have much of an option at this point. I'll take the only chance given.

"Now, can you act embarrassed?" I whispered. If this works out for Kyle, he better goddamn do me a solid later on. Like, when he's rich he has to buy me a house or something. That'd be good.

Stan slowly shook his head.

"I didn't tell you to shake your head," I nodded along, as if verifying. "Now, do you want me to give you a _reason _to be embarrassed? Grab my wrist if that's a no."

He grabbed my wrist.

"Can you act embarrassed then?" No response. "Fine. I'll give you a good reason to be."

Stan tried to escape and lean away, but I was able to pull and force his ear near my mouth. "I woke up early this morning."

Stan froze.

I whispered again, "Do you know what that means?" He didn't move. "Well, that means that while you thought you were having your 'private session', you were actually providing an erotic alarm clock service to me. I didn't see anything, I'll grant you that. But, I don't mind." I recalled earlier this morning. It was still dark to the point where I couldn't even see directly in front of my eyes. Well, I _wouldn't_ have been able to see if the bedroom door hadn't been opened and a sliver of light coming from the bathroom hadn't been dimly illuminating the room. Kyle was snuggled flush against the bedside like a loyal put, breathing slow and measured like. And then, like the slow realization that you hear a train coming from a distance, I heard Stan. The door was shut, the voice muffled, but entirely owned by Stan. "_I like how you breathe in a higher pitch—_" I gave a few practice breaths in his ear, hoping to tickle out a response.

"Kenny,_ stop_ that!" Stan jerked away (awesome choice of words) holding his ear.

"No, I'm telling you the truth! Ask Kyle!" (Another perfect word choice, Kenny. Kyle is sure to misinterpret and accidentally confess on his own. Ten points for me.)

Stan flushed crimson, and I found that funny because it wasn't as though that were the first time I've heard Stan. I've known about his early morning sessions for a while and while I'm visiting I sometimes wake up to an earful. It's not something he actually needs to be embarrassed about. Happens with every growing boy. However, his over-reaction was exactly the kind to get Kyle reeeeally antsy.

"_What? _What did Kenny tell you!?"

Stan wasn't going to repeat something like that. "N...nothing..."

"No, seriously. What did he say?"

"_Nothing_."

So, while those two were taking those first awkward steps toward 'realizing' each other, I caught sight of a blond shadow slinking in the shadows. "Gotta go," I stood up, taking my apple and sliding my empty tray under Stan's. "Take care."

I ruffled a few heads as I passed, eating an apple, closing in on my prey. Butters ate alone, hunched over his fish sticks as if he were whispering secrets to them. "Hey, Butter-ball," I whispered along, sitting across from him.

Butters shot upright, eyes widening, "Oh. Uh, hey, Ken."

"How'd things go? I saw that everything was cleaned up."

"Yeah."

"I came back to the room to find you, you know. But, you weren't there."

"Yeah...I wasn't." Butters pinched at his finger tips, staring at his tray. "I was in the bathroom. I flushed the burning bits down the toilet."

Hm. Thorough. "And...what about my stuff?"

"In my locker."

"Oh, I see. So, we should meet up later?"

"We should?"

"Well, yeah!"

"Oh. Okay." Butters nodded, quietly chewing his food.

He always chewed in small bites. It kinda reminds me of a rodent. Like, a hamster or something. Looking at him, he has such little and precise movements. He's actually gotten into this whole artistic thing for the past couple years. He's good at it. Very detailed. Very...vivid. Like, he's zooming in on something ordinary, then makes a picture out of it. I've seen one. It's a picnic-table cloth, being wrung out. But, instead of water, there were a shit-ton of bugs leaking out (excuse my french, I really am no good at expressing art through words). They all were landing in a shiny new pail (you could even see the reflection of a backyard), and I was seriously grossed out with the detail. They looked sweaty, and there were too many of those small stick legs struggling to climb out. However, one did look like he made it to freedom. Fallen out of the bucket and in the corner of the paper, there is a fly. Without wings. Lying on his back. Not sweaty or shiny. Just plain. Like it was simply there to fill in the space. I questioned Butters, asking if he held some sort of tortured soul to draw something so disturbing. He told me, no. Said he was trying to expand on his illogical fear of bugs. He wasn't even told to by a specialist or anything—he thought of doing it all on his own.

The thing is, I didn't know he was afraid of bugs. Butters said he wasn't_ anymore_, it was only when he was younger. Through preschool, Kindergarten, first grade, second grade, and third grade. He said it was because of that dead fly he drew in the corner. His parents had let him play in their backyard on a picnic blanket and finally called him inside because it was going to get colder. He was gathering up the cloth, and while he was doing that, a dead fly tumbled into his hand. He said it was something like, he saw his own death...in the fly. I guess that's some pretty crazy stuff for a preschooler to think about though. He said those were his first thoughts, though. He saw the colorless, shriveled, husk of a dead fly, no wings, and little preschooler Butters freaked out because he thought he was going to die. He thinks that's when he finally understood what death was and that it scared him. Messed up, right? But Butters also says he's honest when he says he's no tortured soul. He tells me he's only a scaredy cat. I dunno though. Death is a pretty scary thing...even for a fly.

Ugh, I guess that was all kinda useless information, wasn't it? But, it's not something the average person would know, so maybe I didn't bore the audience too bad? I guess I don't care either way. If you were bored, just imagine that whole insert as...how about, imagining it as a raunchy excerpt about the boys' locker room? Yeah. Just imagine I told you about the _wild _times in the locker room. You know...with loose towels and slippery bodies, steam rising up and the like. Use your imagination!

"You about done?"

Butters chewing slowed to a stop. Swallowed. "If you look," he gestured to his tray, "there's still food. So, no."

Gah. He's stone cold in those comebacks. Impatience is a bitch—modern technology has spoiled me. Well, maybe not. I don't have a computer or a cell. So, I can't say that. I guess I'm just impatient. "Can't you just give me your combination? I'll get in myself."

"Do you think you'll be able to remember it?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, I don't want you to remember it. You might try an' break into my locker."

"_What? _No, no, no... I wouldn't do that!"

Butters didn't make eye contact, chewing his lip while looking off to the side. "Yes you would. You've done it before."

Done it before? "I have?"

"I had to get a new combination lock. You guys stole my Walkman to help prop up a bike ramp...Cartman crushed it."

Cartman rode a bike? "Oh. I'm sorry." And Butters had a _Walkman_? How long ago was this exactly?

"Yeah. But, I'd rather you just _wait _until I'm finished."

I waited for a little bit, watching Butter nibbling neatly at his food. Despite how charming it was, it was damn tedious. I couldn't stand it. I flipped around to watch my table, to see what Kyle and Stan were up to. They weren't there though.

"Butters, I'll be back. Or, if I'm not, bring everything to art. Okay?"

Butters nodded, and I took off out of the lunch room. If only they were just _there _in plain sight or left a tail or crumbs or _something_, but of course it wasn't that easy. Where would Kyle bring Stan to confess and have sloppy, teenage-hormonal driven make-outs? (That last piece maybe not so plausible) I reentered the lunchroom, jogging over to our table. I stopped, putting my hands on Craig's shoulders, squeezing them tightly, "Yo."

I was shrugged off, as both Token and Craig turned to acknowledge me.

"What?" Craig asked, probably not caring whether I answered or not.

"Where's Stan and Jew-liet?"

"Well, they _said_—"

"What does it _matter _what those faggy assholes are up to?" Cartman rose from the table, loud and boasting like an idiot drunk. I don't see how he has matured _so _much since elementary school. It's a miracle. Like, if this were a Christmas special, Cartman would be that newborn babe, born in the back of a van on the way to the hospital on Christmas night.

However, I had no time to indulge the infant Cartman. I trailed my fingers along Craig's jaw line, grabbing his chin and leaning to make eye-contact. "They said what?"

Not even a flinch. Craig answered, "They _said _that they both had to go to a meeting for student council. But, I'm pretty sure neither of them have _ever _been a part of student council."

"Yeah, and do we even have a student council?" Token added.

"They both were actin' like a bunch of girls! I bet they ran off to the bathroom to discuss their goddamn _periods_! Arragh, I _hate Kyle_!" Cartman fell to his seat, nudging Clyde as if expecting his agreement.

Clyde narrowed his eyes, sighing and running a hand through his hair. I think I caught him mutter something like 'I'm fuckin' through with this,' and he stood up. "Guys, call me about the movie if you make plans. I'm gonna go...I think I can pick up a convo with Sue. She's been trying to ignore me, but then she keeps running into me somehow. I think it's on purpose, ya know what I mean?" He left his try behind and began a smooth saunter toward the deemed "girls table." Oh, sure there were other girls, at other tables, but none were like the quality of the girls table. Remind me, and I'll explain later, hm?

"Did you know...Kyle is a_ faggot_? And Stan's a _homo_?" Cartman giggled at his completely tasteless 'joke'.

I had to roll my eyes, "Goddamn it all, Cartman. You need to get yourself a _life _and stop acting like such a retard."

"Shut the hell up Kenny, I didn't forget that _you're _the ruling queen over the whole gay ball!"

"At least I'm not into bestiality," I made sure to sing my comment in a higher octave. He loves that.

"What the hell, Kenny?"

"I was there for the _frog_, Cartman."

You know. Just then, I thought of something. While looking down on Cartman's flushed cheeks, that I originally thought to be red with obesity, I had a creeping thought. A thought that I may have been on the verge of making before, but never was able to make the connection before getting distracted. I looked over at Clyde. He had taken a knee and the end of the 'girls table,' chatting with the little blonde at the end. He would tilt his head forward, as if he were looking over imaginary glasses. That angle accented his smile best, and he knew that. Sue looked to be giggling, rocking back and forth and tapping her feet rapidly. She was cute. Her hair was always held together with a bouquet of little bow clips. She actually has glasses but usually wears contacts. She could most_ definitely_ get away with wearing glasses though. Glasses are sexy. But, I can't get distracted.

Clyde frog. I know that's been his name forever, but how have I not mentioned this? _Clyde frog_.

But, no time here or there. I don't want to learn about Kyle and Stan _second-hand_. I want to _see _it. Cartman was making noise, probably thinking that he was explaining himself. I wasn't listening either way. I pat Token and Craig goodbye, exiting stage left.

You know, I think there's some sort of rule about staying in the lunch room during lunch. No one enforces it though. I thought about the options. Well, Kyle is definitely a romantic. A sloppy pit-stop in the bathroom ain't gonna cut it. There's a lovely visage to view in the theater. They're producing something with this lake. I dunno what it's called. Lake Water? No, that can't be the name... Anyway, there's this excellent set, with like a dock and reeds, and a fake lake painted on the back paneling. That might have been a good stop, but I don't think Kyle is thoughtful enough to remember there's such a place. There's a _good _possibility that he took things into one of the lonely classrooms. I don't wanna think like that though, 'case that gives me a lesser chance of finding them.

I'm wasting way too much time thinking about this. Somewhere nice and bright. Classic. By the lockers. I picked up into a jog. You know what? I think I might join the track team. I've done a hell of a lot of running recently. Might as well get awarded for it. I tried my best not to make noise, quick and stealthy like, to the edge of the hall. I peeked around the corner. And _there _they _were_! Aw, Kyle. Why do ya have to be so predictable?

It looks like I missed something though. They weren't talking. Weren't doing anything. Stan stood stiff. He was staring straight at Kyle but they weren't making eye contact. He looked...mortified. And Kyle? Gawd, he was a wreck. He was facing away from me, so I could only see the back of him, but from what I _could _see, his ears and the back of his neck—inflamed. Bright. Red. One hand was in a classic face-palm, the other was suspended in the motion of reaching over. I waited. They remained frozen. About an hour went by (well, maybe only about three minutes) without movement. The urge to interrupt was like a knife teasing at my rib-cage. I wanted to so badly, it hurt.

The ice broke. Kyle dropped his arm, shoving it in his pants pocket. Stan blinked, clearing his throat. Awkward potency increased to 100%.

"I'm sorry..." Kyle mumbled, head down.

Stan's brow was creeping together. Not in anger, but a softening confusion.

Kyle took a shuffled backwards a bit, probably _itching _to get out of there. He's quite sensitive if anyone cares to notice. Put in a situation out of his comfort zone, he is quick to either rage or flee. For me, he rages. For Stan...he flees.

Kyle was still shuffling backwards, mumbling whatever bullshit excuse he could manage. Stan was still confused. He was at least trying to understand. "Wait. W_ait_, Kyle..."

Kyle was bailing out now, half way through getting out of there. Stan barks, firmly this time, "Kyle. _Wait_."

Kyle glanced up, toward me. Toward _me_. Crap. He was totally looking at me. He was out of his comfort zone, and he aimed toward me. Rage, on. "Kenny, what the _hell!_"

No sudden movements. I slowly stepped forward, disclosing my location. Stan's expression grew more concerned, and Kyle was over right quick. He violently grabbed the neck of the t-shirt I was wearing and slammed me against the corner that had been my hiding place. I winced, the pain sharp and along my spine. "Breathe, Kyle! Just take a _breath_!" I was at a loss and I couldn't resist the playful lilting of my tone.

"It's not fucking _funny_, Kenny!" He went and slammed me against the corner again, with another sharp pain up my spine. His face was red and wild with intent to break bones. His teeth gritted, and he leaned close. "You know very well what your little _dumbass_ did, don't you? You did it even when you already _knew _that I didn't want to _tell_ him!"

"But you _did _want to! It was _me _who was telling you not to! Remember?" You know, out of everyone I can name, Kyle has the worst temper, by far. I give him props for it—it's really amazing to see. He's not a fighter, but he sure knows his way around the art of kicking ass. Unfortunately, it was _my_ ass targeted. "Plus, I _didn't _tell him anything about you! That was your own conclu—"

"You _knew _I would think you told him! Because you goddamn _get off _on meddling in other people's _shit!_" Another hit to the spine. I was going to end up a quadriplegic if he kept this up. I love Kyle and all, but I wasn't really gonna let him beat on me to his pleasure. I allowed him this much because we're friends, but no more.

I reached up fast, my ring and middle finger going up his separate nostrils. It's pretty sensitive up there, and it was definitely not a normal attack, so Kyle jerked himself away (half-surprise, half-pain) while I wiped his snot off on the jeans Stan lent me. Oh, but he was only going to get angrier. I bought my fists up, ready to duke things out like men do.

"Dude. D_udes!_"

Kyle ignored Stan, glowering in my direction as he readied to fight as well.

"Dude!" Stan grabbed at Kyle's arm. "Dude, you've gotta chill out!"

"No, I don't _want _to chill out! I _want _to kill Kenny! He's such a goddamned _bastard!_" He spit the words out as is he wanted to burn me with them. Yeah, yeah, if only words could kill.

Stan was the best choice of mediator in this situation though. I mean, Kyle was crazy mad at me, but he would never be nutz-o enough to hurt his dear Stan. Thank the "lawd" that Stan was a good guy. A rare type nowadays.

"Kyle. Can't we both just...talk about this? Come on. Don't kill Kenny just because he was messing around. That's what he does—he doesn't really mean any harm!"

If he says so...

"He doesn't mean any _good _either!"

Very well said.

"Well, it doesn't even matter! You know it's Kenny! He does stuff like this all the time and...in the end he was the perfect excuse for you." Kyle suddenly became less interested in his malicious inclinations and more in his long withstanding "best bud." Stan was still holding Kyle's arm, squeezing it tightly. He looked as though he had recovered from his red complexion from earlier, but now it was all rushing back. His eyes dropped to the floor. " How about, we talk about this seriously? Pretty soon. Like, you can sleep over again, if it's alright with your mom."

Kyle was dumb with confusion. "Spend the night? Yeah. She should be okay with that..."

Stan nodded, face still growing more red. "Good." He looked at me. "You look nice in those clothes, Kenny. You should just keep them. I never really wear them anyway."

And with one final scrap of, he put his hands into his back pockets and walked nonchalantly toward his next class. Kyle staring after, probably staring hard enough to burn a hole in the back of poor Stan's head.

I certainly just witnessed the beginning of 'not a fun time'. I wish I had been wrong. I wish Stan would have rejected him right there. Of course he didn't. And now I feel like folding in on myself, just to keep folding myself and folding myself until there's nothing left to fold. Just to become as small as possible. I don't know. It's just that I feel kinda like crap, my back hurts, no one takes me seriously, and I still have three hours of school left.

* * *

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	7. Bouncing Bleeding Asshat

**Greetings! 'Nother chapter uploaded (if you didn't notice). For the squeamish, there is mentioning(s) of BLOOD-be forewarned. **

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* * *

**Chapter 7: Bouncing Bleeding Asshat**

So, they were planning to settle things tonight, huh? I couldn't manage to get it out of my head. Settle things tonight. I widened my hands, feeling the sloppy, wet clay spin through my fingers. I was the only one in the little nook for pottery working, while the rest of the class had already moved on to charcoal drawings. (I had to ask a special favor of Ms. Ophelia-fern but she didn't mind.)

I was working on a vase, slowly coaxing the clay into a taller and narrower opening. It actually takes a lot of muscle and concentration to mold something worthwhile on the wheel. The problem was, today, I couldn't concentrate. I keep thinking if only things were the same as always. We'd all just be friends.

"Shit." I grimaced at the mangled neck of the vase spinning in my clutches. My actions probably gave away more than I allowed my thoughts to. I wasn't _mad_ or anything. Just tense.

I hovered both palms over the lumpy, revolving sculpture before quickly squashing it into a shapeless nothing. I didn't want to make a vase anyway. Who uses vases? The clay made wet noises as I kneaded my fingers into its cold depths. I was basically out to make a mess at this point. I pumped the pedal a few times, watching clay splatter around me before I used a grey finger to flip the off switch on the side of the device. The humming died and the revolving slowed to a stop. I continued to dig my fingers in the muddy substance, creating divots where excess water started to collect. I wasn't going to be making anything today, I decided. I grabbed the plastic bag I had trapped under my foot, scooping up the clay and tossing it back in. I managed to scrape most of it inside and twisted the bag shut so there would be less air to dry everything out. The next step would probably be to clean up my station. I didn't really feel like cleaning at the moment however.

I absently picked at the grey clay that caked to my hands. I didn't feel like thinking too much. I scratched my nubby thumb-nail at the creases in my palm, watching the dust crumble onto my lap. It was pretty much a ludicrous cycle. When I scratched the dust away, I would get dirt under my nails and then I had to spend time picking the dirt out from under my nails, then I would scratch at more dust and under my nails would get dirty again. There were also a few places still moist, like the clay between my fingers remained sticky and wet. I pushed a thumb through each digit, grooming carefully. What am I going to do with myself? Sitting alone, pining away like some a constitutionally weak middle-school girl. _Fucking embarrassing_.

"Here you are..."

I looked over at Butters who was peeking around the corner from the main work area. I shrugged. "Here I am."

Butters entered, holding a plastic shopping bag knotted tightly at the top. "I have your things like you asked for." He held it out and when I didn't reach for it, he awkwardly laid it at my feet.

"Butters, are you busy?"

"Well, I'm working on my project like I'm suh-posed to be doing..."

"But, other than that, you're not busy? We should hang out."

Butters' eyebrows were glued together in a mixture of what looked like pain and pity. "I'm doing my class work right now, Ken."

I tried to reach for him but he was too far away. "Aw, come on, Butter-ball. I'm so lonely back here, and you'll have no problem trying to catch up on your work. _Please_?"

"Ken..."

"Please, Butters? I'm begging you right now, so don't you think this means a lot to me? I have a lot on my mind, and I just don't want to be left alone to my thoughts."

Butters empathy was starting to kick in as he made fidgety movements, looking back and forth between the main work area and poor ol' me. I could really use some company. I couldn't let him walk away. I stood, jumping over and catching a fistful of his shirt. I purposefully ground my hand into the fabric, pulling him in and simultaneously using him as a towel. Butters gasped, and I pulled away to see the damage. There was a large glob just left of center and in accompaniment were streaks of grey everywhere else.

"Oh no—I didn't mean to ruin your shirt," I lied.

Butters held his arms out like a defeated scarecrow, hunched so that the dampness did not stick to him. "Aw, Ken... Seriously?" I wasn't sure whether he was questioning the seriousness of my actions or the seriousness of my lie, but either way he didn't get an answer.

"I should really help you clean that up—you don't want to go home to your parents like that." I advanced toward the bottom of his shirt, with the intention to remove it.

Butters pushed my hands out-of-the-way, flustered. "No need to do that, Ken. I'll do it on my own—"

"No, no, no," I chided gently as I tried to explain my actions. "I am the one responsible, so I am the one who has to fix it."

I captured Butters who tried to push away. I was able to peel his shirt over his head before he could do much, and his arms were left incapable of resistance until the garment was fully shed. I wasn't trying to be indecent or anything. I took the shirt, and tossed it in the huge metal sink with the swan-neck faucet. There wasn't any plug, so I rolled up an old dish-rag and stuffed it in the drain, turning the hot water on. I glanced over at my captured company. Butters held his arms crossed loosely across his stomach. His face pouted toward the sink, watching the water rise and soak through his shirt.

"Well, you better sit down and wait—what's done is done already—and is is really such a _chore _to keep me company? Am I that much of a loser in your eyes?"

Butters pout faded. "No...you're not a loser?"

"Well, I feel like one. You're the only thing left to make me feel better without having to resort to more malefic means." I plunged my hands into the water. It was scorching, but I bared through the pain. _What's done is done._ I grabbed the shirt and lifted it into view. Steam came off it, and my hands were already red and swelling. I wrung it out once, but then lost touch and it slapped back into the sink—the weight of the water dragging it down. I turned the faucet off.

"Ken?"

"As much as I'd like to talk about it—I think it's above your head." I turned around, leaning by back into the basin. It was hot.

Butters frowned. "What do you mean by that?" It was such a serious frown. Nothing like his normal pouts. A definite crease between his brows and his lips pressed unto a perfectly thin, downward curve. Yes, there was that, but especially in his eyes. His eyes smoldered with offense.

"Not...not really anything." It is such an oddity to see Butters act his age. I mean, he sometimes does with the way he has his comebacks and all—but he's usually still kinda naïve. Or, I guess, that's how I still picture him. Butters is beautiful when he's angry.

"Ken, I want you to sit down."

What? No.

"Ken. Sit down." His body wasn't very intimidating, however his tone suggested something dangerous. I sat down at the pottery wheel, facing him with interest. Butters continued to look at me for a moment before walking over to the sink and turning the faucet on full-blast. He reached over and overturned a bucket of sponges, sticking it under the water. I watched the faint shadow of the water creeping up inside the bucket. Two-thirds of the way, Butters shut the water off. He pulled the bucket out, heavy with water, and brought it over to me. I already knew what he was intending. I lifted my hands, dipping them in the cold water. Relief burns like a sonofa...

Butters leaned against the sink, arms crosses higher across his chest. "Ken, what're you doing?"

I stared at my hands, flexing them open and closed.

"Ken. You know, you're a real...a real..._asshat."_

I looked up, eyebrows raised. "Huh?"

"You think you know everything... but you really don't know anything."

I wiggled my fingers.

"You just...you just assume that I think you're a loser. You just assume that...that I wont understand. You assuming all that...that's what makes you an...an asshat."

Well, crap. When Butters is calling you an asshat, you know you've done something wrong. Butters scowled, sticking his hand into the water. He withdrew it quickly, dragging up his sopping t-shirt. He wrung it once and dropped his hands to his sides. Water pooled at his feet.

"And...what am I supposed ta wear for the rest of the day?"

"I dunno..."

"You don't know?"

"I said I don't know—you just _told _me I don't know anything."

"Bull... I say _bull_-oney. You know what I meant and now...now you're just throwing a fit that I said it." Butters tossed the wet shirt at my head—something I couldn't avoid with my hands soaking. It wrapped around my forehead, probably like some sort of turban. Warm water dripped down the back of my neck. I didn't respond though. I just let my fingers enjoy their swim.

"Now. Now I want you to just tell me what's botherin you so bad, Ken. What's making you act all sorts of stupid and being less smart than you normally are? You tell me so and I'll forgive you for what you did to my shirt, okay?"

Oh, God. I avoided eye contact. Oh, God. I can't believe this. What is happening here? I panicked, analyzing all my brain context. Was I...feeling sorry for myself? Oh, the _idea _of it! The wretched idea of self pity...it's gag-worthy. I never pity myself. Never ever. My life has sucked, continues to suck, and will suck forevermore—and I take it all in stride with an attitude I can proudly call I-don't-give-a-fuck. What has happened to me?

Butters was still staring at me. I could sense it. The damn guy wouldn't give me a break—and why did he have to go and put on his big-boy attitude right now? Makes me feel even more shitty. Even _Butters_ is more—

No. No, I have to stop thinking this way. "I'm sorry, alright Butter-ball? I mean it. You're right about me being an asshat, and I don't like it but it's true."

Sometimes it is best just to admit when you're wrong. Makes it easier to get over things. That's a life lesson right there. Along with accepting who I am (a filthy, mudblood with crooked morals), I've gotta accept that sometimes I'm wrong (wrong as a naked grandma(which IS wrong)). Which is weird. People tell me I'm wrong a lot of the time but I don't often listen. Then again, I usually try to keep my cool around others.

I clenched my hands, starting to fully realize the burning sensation boring under my skin. I've never really been one for self-mutilation... I think it's stupid. But I've gone and done it anyway.

Butters gave a weak smile, turning around and wringing out his shirt again. Oh Lord, I'm such an asshole. What was he going to wear going home?

"Butters..." I set down the bucket now and slipped off the green sack Stan had given me to wear. "You just take this until next hour. Then you can wear your gym clothes home, right?"

Butters awkwardly handled the offer, still trying to hold his wet shirt while anchoring himself on the lip of the sink, trying to get an arm in. The spectacle was too much. I stood to give him a hand with the first arm until he knew what he was doing. Butters zipped it up to his chin and looked at me with still a faint trace of seriousness.

"You think you...you think you are honest with yourself. But I don't...think you really are. I think you're actually just really good at convincing yourself you're honest." He ran a hand through his hair, some of it slicking back with the water. "Kinda like...well, kinda like Eric."

I have to give Butters props. He walked out with those as his final words to me, and I was left dumbstruck by his genius. Butters has always been my standard of minimum intelligence, but he's not stupid. And if he ever was stupid, he isn't anymore. Temptation to think _oh boy, even Butters is smarter than me now _panged in in the back of my brain in the part behind the right ear. I mentally shut myself up. Butters is a smart guy. It's just kinda hard to think of him that way.

But, _Cartman_? Could I be? I still didn't really want to think about it. Teenage hormones are the devil. I spent the rest of class filling the whiteboard near me with rows and rows of penis'. I didn't count, but there had to have been well over sixty.

* * *

Today, Mr. Ned is absent, so Mr. Bown was put in as a sub. He has the same inclination toward exercise as an obese man with fifty-plus years of chain-smoking under his twice-extended belt (Which is, in fact, what he is exactly). So, he told us all just to play with the basketballs for the hour. Just "play with them." Not, "Play basketball." So, there wasn't really any point in working up a sweat. Most kids just stand in circles, dribbling and talking. Some don't even go out-of-the-way to dribble, and they just talk. I grabbed a ball of one of the racks, dribbling my way over to Kyle. Part of me questioned whether or not it was a good idea (Probably because Kyle had attempted murder toward me. I say probably, because whenever I think so, a part of my calls bullshit. Still can't figure out why) but I dribbled forward nonetheless. Kyle was taking his playtime a bit more seriously than I was. He was making rounds, shooting from each point line and repeating. It was mighty impressive. He didn't even notice me. I could see him glance toward the door every few moments though. Looking for Stan. Who else?

And during one of those glances, he finally noticed the little section of the gym he'd reserved for himself was occupied by none other than me. He slowed down, turning toward me before snapping his arm out and shooting another perfect basket. I watched the ball bounce crooked-ways toward the wall until it make contact and rolled further away.

"Hey, whassup?"

I kinda hated his cheerfulness.

"Not much. I drew a ton of dicks today. Probably filled my quota for a month or two."

Kyle smirked childishly. "That's great man, a really good use of your time."

I bounce-passed the ball over to Kyle who caught it without a second thought.

"Hey, no judging, alright? I've seen the back cover of your chemistry book. Dick Central."

Kyle bounce-passed the ball right back.

"Excuse me, but you're the one who drew 'Dick Central' there."

Bounce-pass.

"You let me. You even suggested the fountain—the best part of the whole piece you know."

Bounce-pass.

"Well, whatever. It's not like I was the one who drew it though."

Bounce-pass.

"You spent the whole hour watching me draw it."

Bounce-pass.

"You were drawing in my notebook—how was I supposed to take notes?"

Pass.

"You could've told me to back off."

Pass.

"Would you have listened?"

Pass.

"Well, not if you didn't ask."

Pass.

"Oh really."

Pass.

"Yes, really."

Pass.

Pass.

Pass.

The ball was no longer touching the floor and we passed chest-to-chest. Conversation puttered into nothing and the only thing exchanged was the single ball. I wouldn't look him in the face though. I allowed myself that solstice, because just being near him was stirring up complicated things. Similar to what I'd experienced in art. Crap time for it to pop up, and I knew looking at Kyle's cheery-face wasn't going to improve anything. That was just it though. I was only bothered because he was happy and I wasn't.

"Hey, guys!"

The voice crashed like thunder or maybe it was just me. It was like it echoed through my brain before finally registering—and in registering it viciously prodded at that bit of everyone's brain that makes you want to defeat the world in one blow. I resisted. But then, I was distracted and forgot I was currently unhappy with happiness.

I looked up as I caught Kyle's final pass to me. He was staring past my shoulder, at his voice. His eyes were widened, glittering with more life than the Fountain of Youth. He was so damn happy. I was pissed off. Maybe at him, maybe at the voice, and, for sure, at myself. My arms snapped out, no longer wished to share in the ball being passed between us. I knew automatically that I had snapped too hard.

Everything sort of happened fast. Nothing slo-mo like in the movies. Kyle was staring, fawn-eyed at the voice and the ball collided square in the middle of his face. His head whipped back, the ball dropped directly at his sneakers. Kyle rose his head to look at me bewildered. I was probably looking bewildered right back.

Blood. Like, a lot of it. The bottom of Kyle's face was dyed completely.

"My nose..." He raised his hand up, ending up smearing a huge glob across his palm and forearm as he tried to wipe it all away. Well, that didn't work. Where did all that _blood _come from? There was bruising too. Just perfect.

Well, paralysis struck me at that moment so Stan came running up instead.

"Oh my God, Kyle! Your _nose_!"

No duh.

Stan fluttered around uselessly, asking if Kyle was okay. Kyle slightly nodded, trying to be considerate and not worry him. Everybody had noticed by now and there was a crowd gathering. I sort of blended into the spectators, letting those two keep the stage. This was exactly the gruesome spectacle that all humans are interested in. Mr. Bown pushed though, panicked that this would probably be another strike against him in the same day.

"Everyone, back off!" he growled, pushing through.

The crowd parted and Mr. Bown moved to look over Kyle's situation. Kyle bled.

"Does anyone have some tissues?"

"I do!" shrieked some girl, thrusting a handful she'd probably dug out of her purse.

Mr. Bown took them, looked closely at Kyle again who looked like he didn't know what to do with his hands. "How are ya feelin', Boy?"

"Not my best."

Mr. Bown gave him the tissues, and Kyle held them to the bottom of his nose to catch the dripping life-force.

"Okay, class is over early. I'm gonna bring Mr..." He struggled through the bog of his mind, searching for the correct surname. "Bravola to the hospital."

Wow, that was his first guess?

Mr. Bown commanded a path again and he and Kyle made way outside followed by a weird procession. Only Stan was left behind, which was kind of surprising since I thought that he was who would probably care the most, right? But Stan stood by, watching them leave until we were completely alone.

I looked at him. He still stared at the door, expression soft and malleable like I could just squish it into any shape I wished. He wasn't twisted in worry now. Well, there was a small crease. So small, just between his eyebrows.

"Kenny?"

I blinked. I'd been string right at him, but I hadn't seen his mouth move.

Stan turned, meeting my eyes with his. Then something suddenly seemed to snap. I could hear his breathing and it rapidly turned frantic, as he still stared at me like he had something to say. It went on, becoming raspy and then becoming dry retches. Oh my God.

"Is there something wrong?" I asked, become more concerned now that it hadn't passed. Stan didn't have asthma, right? Or a fear of blood?

Stan half-way collapsed, holding my shoulder for support. I curled to look at his face. It was like he was having a panic attack.

"Stan? Are you okay?"

Stan nodded between two separate gagging noises.

"What's wrong? You afraid of blood or something? Kyle's gonna be okay you know..."

Stan shook his head, the gagging turning into heavy breathing again. What was he saying 'no' to? The blood thing or the Kyle thing? I was desperate for this to go away. I lowered Stan to the gym floor, defiantly not some medical professional, but I didn't want him to faint and crack his head open.

We sat down together and I began to wonder why he even had made me angry. Stan isn't a bad guy. I'm just...being stupid is all. Stan was bracing the ground, bangs flipping back-and-fourth in his panting.

"Stan...what's wrong?"

Stan looked up. He was cringing, and he brought a pale fist up to his chest as I could visibly see him swallow.

"I..."

I waited patiently. I mean...I didn't really know what else to say.

Stan swallowed again. "I...I was so...grateful that Kyle had to go to the hospital..."

What?

"I don't...know what to do, Kenny..." He shook his head violently. "I don't know what I should do. I invited him to stay the night...but I wouldn't know what to do..."

Oh. So it was about that.

"You afraid to be gay or something?" It was the same for them all, but I didn't think Stan would be so bothered by it.

Stan shook his head.

"Oh, so it wasn't that?"

Stan shook his head, "No. It's not that. It's...that...Kyle..."

"Hm?"

"It's that I don't like him. I don't know how to...tell him. I don't know how to tell him that I won't like him ever."

What? Pity clawed at my heartstrings followed by a weird numbing relief.

"How do you know that?"

Stan sat back up, head between his knees. "I've thought about it a lot. I mean, there was a time where I thought..._maybe._..but not anymore. I can't...I can't reject him! What was I going to do tonight? What if he expected something from me? No—I know he expected something. A return of affection..."

Stan nuzzling into his knees, voice muffled. "I know I have to tell him sometime...but he told me that he loved me, you know? Love? I don't know how to face him...I'm scared."

I looked at Stan, hunched over in his pathetic show of anxieties. I hated him. I hated him so much right now. He led Kyle on. Kyle expected happiness. Kyle is probably worrying that he wont be able to see Stan tonight. And Stan is whining about how he couldn't push him away. It was definitely a righteous hatred.

"You should have told him as soon as he told you, you _pussy_." Now he's going to hurt so much more.

I left Stan to sit alone.

* * *

**Stan is not really the bad guy-Kenny is just too quick to judge :(**


	8. Rain on my Funeral

**I needed to write something, so I thought-why not more Kenny? He's a really relaxing character to work with, and I don't ever really have to worry about what he's up to. It's all just there.**

* * *

**Chapter 8: Rain on my Funeral**

I walked home. I hated everything. Fuck the world—it was nothing but a giant shit-ball anyway. The world was a giant shit-ball and it was ignorant to all its shittyness. I hope Stan catches a hemorrhoid. That is the only thing that would make me feel like the world was just. A bunch of juicy hemorrhoid grapes hanging from Stan's ass. Fuck him for not loving Kyle.

I wrapped my thin "quilt" around me as I curled up in bed. I just wrapped myself up and toasted in my own heat. As if I had homework. Yeah, right. So, this was it. I absolutely hated Stan right then. I needed to. Just to set myself up to realize that it was my own damn fault. Yes. I knew that Stan wouldn't be able to commit forever, but I hadn't expected it to be so soon. I totally screwed over Kyle. Not just any screw though, a god-damned power-screw. That was enough for me though, but I also couldn't forget that I also busted up his nose.

All these thoughts were piranhas, eating up all thoughts that weren't self-hatred. I was restless. I couldn't just sit around and do nothing. I'm not the type to just...sit around. But it's not as though there as a whole lot to distract a kid in town. Or anywhere around here. I unwrapped myself, rolling off my mattress. My back hurt and my stomach growled. God, I'm hungry. I slipped out my bedroom window and headed back into town. The walk was almost relaxing. I was so cold, I didn't have time to dwell on my thoughts. I stared at the snow, walking the sidewalk and finally pushing my way into the bar.

It's quiet and the bartender more or less leaves me alone as long as I'm not bothering the customers. My dad told 'im not to serve me anything alcoholic and the man sticks to his word. What's even more surprising is that my dad cared enough to tell him not to. Almost fatherly of him. Not that I need a bartender around to get a drink—it's the thought that counts. I casually walked to the counter, sitting in a high stool next to a man slumped over, probably passed out or just plain sleeping. He was cradling a brown-glassed bottle. I picked it up and held it between my knees before calling the bartender's attention.

"Hey, Sam..." Sam turned around, and I nodded toward the lump of flesh dozing on the counter.

Sam looked at the man, paused, turned away, then returned to set another bottle in the man's grasp. Sam turned away, and I took my prize. I don't doubt that the guy knows what I'm doing, but he can't do anything about it. He's keeping his promise not to give me any, but he never promised to kick me out if someone ELSE gave it to me.

I walked over to a far corner booth, facing so I could see the doorway. I always like to see what's coming before it hits, and I don't wanna be surprised by maybe some guy walking up and pointing out that I'm underaged or something. So, I watched the door as I knocked back the remaining room-temp beer I had confiscated. I cringed at the mouthful of warm aluminum piss flavor. I don't understand how others can manage to drink until drunkenness. I sure as hell couldn't wait that long with such a nasty-ass flavor. I set the bottle down hard, unconcerned about what germs I may have caught from sleeping beauty over at the bar. Alcohol is like, 90% disinfectant so I think I'm okay.

Sam was quiet as he usually was when the place was near empty. He wasn't the kinda guy I'd like to talk with anyway. He's all small talk and no substance... You know what? I bet he's the type who has a ton to say about corn. I wouldn't put it past him. I bet he'd like it if I walked over there right now and asked him how the crops are gonna be this year. I bet he'd love that. I absently scratched at the wax peeling off the table, staring out the door. It looked more grey then it had looked. The sky was ashy and looking pregnant with a storm. Fantastic—I love rain. Not even a sarcastic love. Just love. I stood up and walked back over to the pickled man. I swapped bottles, taking the colder one back to my seat. The top had already been opened. I took a mouthful, feeling the chilly sting before swallowing. If I had to have a preference, I prefer cold beer to warm beer. Not by much. Lord, the stuff is nasty. But I drank anyway. I drank until I was full and until my eyes started to water. It was definitely the booze though. I mean, it's not like I had a reason to cry.

Without recycling I left the bottle for Sam to clean up and shuffled dumbly toward the door. I waved at Sam, but it just ended up looking like I was trying to swat an imaginary fly. I didn't care. Pressing heavily into the door was cold. It's always cold. I swung myself into the street, trying my best to stand upright...to look _not_ inebriated. I think I made it about a block before the feeling of alcohol on an empty stomach was enough to make me vomit. Which I did. Right into an alleyway. It stung all the same coming back up as it did going down. A little went out my nose too. And more watery eyes. It was probably only because it was raining.

So, now I was soaked and I was stumbling through the streets like a regular drunk. I wasn't drunk though. I wish I had been. I just kinda felt like total shit and I was hungry too. I had to sleep it off. I was going to be better tomorrow. There was a bench just outside the post office under an awning. I pulled my arms into the pea-green jacket I'd borrowed. I wish I had my parka back. I closed my eyes and hoped I wouldn't dream.

* * *

I didn't sleep as long as I had wanted. But I guess it was for the best. I might have froze myself and no one wants that. I was kinda surprised to be woken. Opening my eyes and I suddenly realized my joints were all on lock. I looked over and Stan was standing there, staring at me. I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but it also kinda felt like I might puke if I tried. Stan's face was rosy and his hat nearly falling off. He was breathing heavily too. And in his arms was _my_ parka.

That's mine. I couldn't say it though.

"Are you awake? No...are you _okay_?"

I wanted to answer. I really did. But you know...I just couldn't.

Stan looked into his arms, "I'd wanted to give this back to you. It's clean now."

I stared at it. Reach out. Grab it. _Take_ it already. I commanded my arms but it wouldn't work. I needed to tell him. I needed to tell him...

"I am fucking _cold..._"

That's not what I'd meant to say. Stan looked at me, frowning. "How long have you been out here?"

I don't know. Not long enough to die I supposed, so that's good enough.

Stan seemed to get the hint. I wouldn't be answering anytime soon. I hated how he was concerned. He's supposed to be the bad guy. But no, of course not. Instead, he had to lean over and pick me up. Not completely. It was more like propping me back onto my own feet. My knees hurt like a sunnovafuck and I leaned all my weight into Stan. That was the best punishment I could manage to dish out in my condition.

"I'm gonna take you to my place, okay?"

Not okay. Not okay at all. I want to go home.

Stan walked for me, forcing me to try to keep my feet under myself as he, my only means of support, started to move forward. What else could I do? So, we both shuffled our damn selves to Stan's place. My joint pain improved squat and it was a bitch to even make it up the front steps, so once inside Stan sort of gingerly dropped me on his couch.

"Mom is taking a nap right now...Um, and Dad is still working. But...yeah. Do you need anything?"

"I'm cold." Shit, I wanted to cuss him out. Not enough energy.

Stan's eyes widened as he looked around. "Oh, shit. Yeah. Uh—I'll go find a blanket or something. And I'll turn up the heat. And I'll get you hot chocolate. And...yeah, I'll be back."

I didn't bother watching Stan run around like the place was on fire. I tried to make the best out of things, reclining into the cushions and letting out a groan while I was at it. I would totally sleep on this couch forever.

Stan hovered back into view, with his arms full of his own bed spread. "Here..." He dumped the pile on my body, halfheartedly tucking things in before flitting away. I shifted a bit, trying to distribute the sheets a bit more evenly over my body. Then the hunger came back. It felt like my stomach was trying to eat itself. Self-cannibalism is never a pleasant experience.

I bore the pain. Hunger was nothing foreign for me. I was kinda regretting the beer, but hey, it isn't the first time I've done something stupid. I don't know how long it was, but I was starting to feel a numb tingling going through my limbs by the time Stan returned. Lying down was no longer comfortable, so I pushed myself up against the armrest as best I could to sit up. Stan filled the spot on the couch no longer occupied by my legs holding a mug with "I love MOM" printed on the side. I was able to reach out this time and take it. It was warm. I took a mouthful, disregarding the heat, trying to get something into my stomach.

"So, how are you feeling? Still cold?" He was doing that awkward small-talk thing that people do.

"Better." I burned my mouth again with another swig of chocolate fire.

Stan was staring at me. He probably didn't have anything else to stare at with me being the most interesting thing in the room, but it was the kind of stare that meant he wanted to say something. He probably had something to say about what happened during gym. He probably wanted to know if I hated him or something. I stared into the cup in my hands. I felt like he deserved a hemorrhoid. I took another mouthful. But I maybe didn't hate him. Stan pulled his knees up, hugging them while staring at the blank television. I couldn't hate him.

"You got anything to eat?"

Stan perked up, already in motion before he responded, "Yeah, totally, What you want?"

"Anything. Just make it quick..."

I could hear his feet as he ran across into the kitchen again. A cupboard banged open, never banging closed. Stan ran back in, tossing a drum of frosted animal crackers because his feet weren't moving fast enough.

"Frosted animal crackers?"

Stan froze in place. "What? Do you want something else? It was the first thing I could reach, but I'll go get something else."

"God damn, Stan. Calm your tits and sit."

Stan cautiously nodded, coming back over to sit at my feet. He was staring at me again as I balanced the hot chocolate and pried open the animal crackers.

"So."

I dangled my hand over the rim, catching a zebra between my fingers. "So." I dangled the cracker over my mouth in a teasing motion. I wouldn't dare tease myself for long though—I'm not into that kinda stuff anyway. And so the frosted zebra fell to its death, ground into nothing between a set of molars. God, I was so hungry. None of that one-at-a-time crap, I grabbed a handful and tested the limits of my mouth capacity. As I tried to make my way though the zoo I had shoved in my mouth, Stan was being all fidgety and staring with his meaningful stare or whatever.

"So..." He began again, voice sounding dry. I watched him swallow. "How are you?"

I stared lamely at Stan, cheeks bulging as I chewed. Did I look in the position to have a chat?

Stan heaved a breath, "Yeah, of course. Well—can I explain something to you then?"

I didn't say no in the immediate breath afterword, so I guess Stan took that as the 'to go' signal.

"You know that I love you guys. I'm not like, lying about that. But...nothing beyond a bromance. God, Kyle is my best friend and don't take that the wrong way you're one of my best friends too, but that's just it—Kyle's my best friend. I would never let something like...whether he has balls or boobs stop me—I mean, he's been there forever. I've seen so many parts of him, we've done so much together, I _wish _I could just give my whole self to him. But I know I can't..." Stan's speech was rapid and without pause for breath. Just listening to it was making me dizzy. "I can't just _give _myself to him. I want to, I've played it over in my head. I am still kind of half-willing to try, just because I know it could be perfect. But I can't do it. I just can't do it Kenny, and I needed to tell you, and I don't know what to do. I don't even have a good excuse. I love Kyle, but I can't. I can't, Kenny. I _can't_."

Stan leaned in with each "can't" emphasizing his commitment to the word. I chewed dumbly, allowing his argument to slosh around in my brain. Why can't he?

I looked at Stan, trying to send my thought-vibes toward his brain.

"I don't know. I just don't...feel the same way. I don't think I've ever felt what Kyle says he feels. I mean, if I did love someone, you would think that I'd notice, right? Like, some weird obsessiveness and possessiveness and all those other -ness's?"

My chewing was loud to my ears, but the crackers were slowly turning soggy. I began flexing my throat muscles, trying to work everything down into my pitiful stomach. I took another swig of hot chocolate, trying to lube the way down.

"Why?" I managed to clear enough room to answer.

Stan frowned. "Why what? I already told you..."

"Why tell me?"

Stan ran a hand over his head, leaving behind a trail of awkward peaks. "Well, because you looked like you seriously hated me. And I don't want you to hate me, Dude. You're my friend, like I said."

I grabbed another handful of crackers, think time only eating three this time around. "I don't hate you bro. Did have some serious black-magic wishing that you'd get hemorrhoids—so, sorry if you know...if _that _happens, it's all on me."

Stan's air of apprehension relaxed a bit as he looked to be fighting a smile. God damn, why was I such a good guy, letting him off so easy? I'm so soft and squishy, it's sickening.

Stan chuckled. "Yeah, but maybe I deserve a little punishment...you were right. I should have told him as soon as he confessed."

I swallowed and added three more crackers in their place. "Yeah, everyone realizes how smart Kenny is once it's too late. It's a recognized pattern. There's even a book of statistics out about it."

Stan chuckled this time, relaxing enough to lean back into his couch, staring at the empty TV screen. "And I suppose nobody heeds it's warning?"

"Nope. Fuckers ignore my advice until the very end, every time."

"Well, to be fair, you hadn't given me 'in case Kyle falls in love with you' advice until afterward."

"You wouldn't have heeded even if I had told you. You would have fucked it up, being all like, 'Maybe I shouldn't just tell him right away. Maybe he can _change _me' or something stupid. I know. That is totally something you would do. I know everyone else even better than I know myself."

Stan was looking over at me, head sort of tilted as he was weighing my knowledge of him.

"That actually..."

"Completely sounds like something you'd do. I know. I've known you since before kindergarten—I've had my fair share of time to learn the workings of Mr. Stanley Marsh.

"And you're _always _right?"

"Well, probably not... I've learned that I'm pretty terrible at knowing what the hell I'm doing with myself." I recalled what Butters had to say about things. I'm good at convincing myself a load of crap that's not true. However, knowing that doesn't really help. How do I even know when to trust myself then?

Stan questioned, "You're near psychic when it comes to everyone else, but you don't understand yourself?"

"Does anyone understand themselves?" I sighed, picking out a hippo and biting of its legs individually. "It's some scary shit to just look at your bare and naked self and admit to all you are. People are terrible. Especially me. I sure as hell don't want to be honest with myself, and I probably have good reasons. Just...that they're suppressed reasons."

Stan breathed heavily through his nose, looking away again. "Want me to try? Picking you apart like you do for everybody else?"

"Hell no—didn't I just get done saying I'm not ready to face myself? I'm terrible, so I'd much rather live in ignorance to that until I'm old enough to be a legal alcoholic." I took another mouthful of warm chocolate, but by now, my mouth was kind of burnt, so it was more just filled with liquid as far as I could tell. "You're gonna have to tell Kyle immediately, you know."

Stan stiffened. "I know."

"When you plan on getting that out of the way then?" My hunger was no longer crippling, so I was able to slow down on the chewing and get more into the actual conversation.

"I don't know...I guess, just at school."

"Sooner."

Stan's eyes widened. "Sooner?"

"Sooner."

"At...the bus stop?"

"Ugh, no way. You don't want him to find out while Cartman'll be close by. Sooner."

_"Sooner?"_

"Much sooner."

Stan was shifting uncomfortably. "Well...like, when then?"

I rolled my eyes. "I don't know, when is the soonest you can do things without going back in time?"

Stan was now reverting back to his earlier state of fidgetry. "But...his nose is already broken and bloody...and I have to tell him already?"

"He's being led on by false hope this very instant. Is it fair to let him settle down in a fantasy that is already doomed?"

"Do...you think he's home?"

"That's a good place to start."

Stan massaged the bridge of his nose. Yeah, it wasn't going to be a pleasant confrontation. I don't even want to imagine it. It's so...sad. And I feel really guilty about it. I stuffed my mouth with more frosted crackers, going for the 'eat your problems away' approach.

"What...am I going to say?"

I stopped with my chewing, cheeks pudgy. I have no goddamned clue. I shook my head. Goddamn it Kyle, the fucking golden rule of the world is not to love your best friend...I can't even blame him though. It makes sense to love your friend, doesn't it? So why does it seem like the world is against it? Like it's out on a search and destroy mission against anyone who dare progress past best friend. It's not even enough to just let them fall back into a friendship. No—everything has to be goddamned awkward for the rest of eternity and you'll never be able to enjoy each others company without knowing that there was one time when you were "together" and being weird about it. I hate it. I hate it so much. Why can't we all just stop giving a fuck? It'd be so much easier...

Stan probably already realized that there was no answer. I could see it in his expression. Dread. He stood up, running his hands down his chest as if her were trying to smooth over his worries. "So...you can stay as long as you like. I don't really know how long I'll be gone." Stan swallowed, his adams apple visibly bobbing. "Wish us both luck or something?"

His voice cracked, poking a hole in any poor feelings I may have still harbored toward him. It wasn't easy for Stan. It was his best friend, of course it wasn't going to be easy. But I'd bet Stan knew exactly about what exactly he was getting into. What the chances were that nothing would change between them. It's almost like walking to his own funeral.

Stan wasn't in any rush to adjust his hat back onto his head. He put his coat back on, zipping it halfway. His eyes were whetted with emotion as he looked at me one last time. There was nothing I could do. So, Stan pried the front door open and walked out into the rainy weather.

I was too sick to eat any more. I set the drum on the floor, trying not to imagine what might happen. I needed a pick-up from all this draining emotional crap. I could really use a night out, full of mindless fuckery. Well, I'd have to go out with those who I can mindlessly fuckless with. I leaned deep between my knees, partially to stretch and partially in a thinking motion. Token, Craig, and Clyde were hanging out today. I should crash. I'm pretty good at crashing. And they're all good for a good time. I continued to stretch, trying to loosen the tightly restricted muscles and joints. It took a bit of effort to get back on my feet, but once that was over movement became a bit easier. I finished off the chocolate, using my finger to scrape out the little chocolate trail left. I slipped off the green sack, letting it fall to my feet. Stan had hung my iconic orange winter-wear by the door when we'd walked in earlier. I swiped it off the hook, bunching it up to my nose to take a whiff. It's been such a long time since it's smelled clean. I returned it to its rightful body, it feeling extra smooth and without the typical crust. How enjoyable. I fastened everything tight, but left my hood pushed back. I was going to try to enjoy the rain during my walk. I'm just gonna try to enjoy. It feels too long since I've enjoyed. Just enjoy.

* * *

**Like, send flowers to that funeral but you sure as hell aren't gonna go there and be all mopey. Best way to be happy is to go and enjoy things-aint that right, Kenny? **

**Oh no, it's not that easy...**


	9. And All I Got Was Chocolate Milk

**I bet I'm more relieved than you that I updated. Seriously, I've been writing this specific chapter so slowly...I really just wanted to get it done! Well, I'm glad it's done. (Not the story though, that is never done). So, here I am writing while using a character I've never really written about. So, that was interesting. Took too much thinking! Anyway~ enjoy!**

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**Chapter 9: I Went to a Mansion and All I Got was Chocolate Milk**

No denying it—I'm a shitty guest. Nobody likes the guy who shows up to the party when they weren't invited. However, I didn't climb through the window—that deserves at least a _tiny_ bit of appreciation, right? Then again, I didn't avoid climbing on in because of my respect of other peoples privacy or anything. It's just that Token's house is so damn big. Me climbing into any of those windows is like setting a rat at the beginning of a maze to find the cheese. I've never been interested in participating in the daily rat race anyway. Too competitive.

I rang the doorbell instead, like a good citizen, and stood there. It was weird—there wasn't anything to lean into casually and no bible or fruit cake to occupy my hands...I was basically left with the option to stand there or, if I really wanted to be daring, sit there. Luckily, I wasn't left to contemplate on how I should pose to not look so stand-y for long.

"Kenny?" Token greeted. Well, it wasn't a greeting at all, but I'll be disregarding that.

"Hey, Man. Wassup?" I tried my best to sound casual, like I was meant to be coming over—Token was hardly ignorant to my intentions. He had the door only halfway open as he leaned into the frame, blocking entrance.

"What are you doing here?" It may have been an innocent enough question, but I'm asked so often it gets really hard not to take it as an accusation. No use being a sour puss about it though—lord knows I have enough problems without creating new ones.

"Valid question," I responded, wishing again that I had something to do with myself. I struck an awkward pose with my hands behind my head. "I guess you could say...I'm here to party."

"Who said I was having a party? You'd know if I were having a party. _Everyone_ would know." A party at Token's was an event for the community, so yeah. I'd know.

"_Are you saying I can't come in then?_"

There was a slight hesitation, but only for show. Soon enough, Using his heel, Token kicked the door the rest of the way open. "You're lucky that I was awake..."

"I was just thinking about how _rude_ of me it was to arrive without a gift or anything—take a rain check?"

"No need." Token closed the door as soon as I had sauntered in, twisted a few golden latches and typed in the security password to arm the house from intruders. He then turned back, walking away at a pace not eager to get anywhere. "We were _actually _going to be getting to sleep."

"What?" I screwed my face into an exaggerated look of confusion. "Right now? No...what time is it? It can't be tomorrow already."

Token took a deep breath, letting it out through his nose. "It's...late. I'm tired. We're _all_ tired. Plus, we have school."

I scoffed before I mentally gave myself permission. Oops, well there's no taking it back now.

Token scoffed back, elbowing me in a better humor, "If you've gotta problem with it, you can take it up with C² (a dumb-ass nickname, but it saves a little breath in pronouncing both Craig _and_ Clyde), because _they're_ the ones who couldn't make it through the movie. I ended up the spare wheel on their trip to slumberland."

"Well, that's gay."

"In more than one way... but yeah, it sucked."

Token lip-trilled, sounding like a disappointed horse. Third wheel is one of those worst social situations to be in—between 'everyone is invited but you' and 'left alone with a friend's friend while you don't know each other'. Awkward and uncomfortable, sad and annoying.

"There they are." Token nodded through an open door as we passed. A ridiculously large flatscreen flickered fast-paced images, lots of explosions going on in mute. The back of the sofa only revealed two slumped heads supporting each other. Looking back at Token, he seemed far from interested as he continued through the hall. He wasn't a huge talker and he didn't fall into the temptations of petty gossip. Well, actually, it probably wasn't even a temptation for him. He was a pretty straightforward guy. Anyway, Token led the way until we entered the kitchen. He headed toward their huge pristine appliance, swinging open the double doors of the fridge. "Want something?"

The question was unexpected, but my answer came anyway. "Chocolate milk."

Token craned over his shoulder, eyebrow cocked.

"What? I just...had the craving."

"I'm sure." Maybe he thought it was childish. Maybe he thought something else. I don't know. Token is one of those guys who totters on the edge of two different personalities, so I'm sometimes left to wonder. Was he being sincere or was he catering to the crowd? That has always kind of been Token's point of crisis. He really tries to make himself out to be what everyone else wants. The guy has valid opinions, and if you test him on that he will destroy you—but he's hardly bothered enough to call people out anymore. So it's hard to tell if one comment or another was truly Token-esqe or not. "Well, despite how much I _crave_ to be a good host, we don't have chocolate milk."

Ah, man...really? "Not even chocolate syrup?"

Token frowned, "You wanna drink chocolate syrup?"

I frowned as well. "No. I wanna _make _chocolate milk."

"How?"

This was unbelievable. "_How_? You've never made chocolate milk?"

"No," Token dragged the sound out a mile long.

"Don't sound so doubtful—do you have chocolate syrup or not?"

Token turned back into the fridge, his hands nudging jars and bottles around with little clinking noises. He withdrew a jar, _De'Frau's Delights._

I grabbed it, turning it over in my hands while eyeballing the label. A bunch of claims on imports and high pedigree(which I honestly thought was only for dogs). "Hershey's would have been fine too. Just sit down and give me reign of the fridge, I can get things done faster."

Token backed out-of-the-way, heading over to a nearby counter and hoisting himself up to sit. I put the chocolate under my arm, using the other hand to look for milk. I plunged into tupperwares of radish, and broccoli, and things that were probably pickled intentionally and not from sitting in the fridge past expiration. Where in the hell did they keep the milk? I let out a grunt, standing on my toes in an attempt to look to the back of the top shelf. Who needed a tall fridge anyway? Only _three_ people live here, do they ever need this much food? Why wasn't _my _fridge like this?

"Uh, what are you even looking for?"

I didn't need this—I told him I'd be faster, but I didn't know then that you needed a fucking map to navigate. I strangled a bag of shredded lettuce, tossing it over my shoulder while wishing it a poor landing, "Just...where's the _milk?_"

"Soy or regular?" How could he be so deadpan? I checked his expression, and he was seriously serious.

Soy or regular? Who drinks _soy_? Aren't candles made of soy? Isn't soy poisonous? It's obviously flammable if they make candles out of it. "Regular."

"Well, they're both inside the door either way," Token mused flatly with a shrug.

I cannot believe this guy sometimes. He is cool as a cucumber all while being completely unbelievable. It's as if his thought process was written by some weirdly aloof being with a backwards sense of humor. I looked to the door on my left, seeing the two cartons that I'd been elbowing throughout my search. I avoided the soy, grabbing the blue carton labeled 1%.

"Glasses?" I asked before I attempted a kitchen-wide search. (I'm taking a mental note to never try to scavenger hunt professionally.)

Token reached behind his head to open a cupboard, "Right here," Without looking, he pinched two glasses between his fingers and brought them out.

I set the milk and chocolate down on the free space next to him, taking the glasses next and setting them down. "It's not that difficult of a process," I said in commentary to my movements. I filled each glass within a sip of the top. "Just remember to add a lot of chocolate." I opened De'Frau's, slanting it and letting a thick drizzle into each glass. "Stir..." I put a finger into my share, whipping it in little circles while trying to avoid spillage. Soon enough, ordinary dairy was transformed into something much more: chocolate milk. I removed my finger, sticking it in my mouth to test the waters. Decent.

"And, _voilà,_ chocolate milk." I offered Token a sip of my creation.

"I don't know where your finger's been." He pushed mine away, picking up his own and using his pointer to stir slowly.

"Whatever." I pushed the milk and chocolate back, sitting in their place. I sipped slowly, watching as Token's milk turned. It was quiet, and the chocolate was sweet... and pretty soon a little sleep was starting to sound nice. I'd only gotten in a nap, otherwise I was running on imaginary energy. Token and I didn't talk too much after that. I took to staring into my glass, kind of absently. I didn't really think about anything. Fairly soon we'd both reached the pool of syrup at the bottom of our cups. Well, I've never been one for wastefulness, so I used my longest finger to guide the chocolate dew into my mouth where it belonged.

Token took the empty glasses (without asking if I was finished which, by the way, I _wasn't_), hopping off the counter and putting them in the dishwasher. I reached behind me, pulling out the milk and chocolate and holding them out to him. Token came around and got them as well, putting them back in the fridge. "Hope that milk didn't go bad with it sitting out for so long."

I scoffed for the second time that night. "It was only out for, like, fifteen minutes. I'm sure that it's safe." I hopped onto the floor as well, stretching grandly, and man it felt good to stretch. Still seemed like that whole 'sleeping outside' thing was still affecting me. I added a yawn into the stretch sequence for extra measure.

"All partied out now or are we still avoiding sleep?"

"I'm not avoiding it, and yeah, I'm partied out. You sure know how to throw 'em."

Don't think I didn't notice that little amused quirk in the corner of his mouth. It was brief, but there, and while I was having this argument with myself, Token was already taking his long ass legs out of the room. I had to make a few quick hops to catch up with his longer than necessary strides, following him up a steep stairwell that spiraled up to the next floor. It was one of those passages meant for like, servants or something, because I've never seen it used. Hell, I didn't even know it existed. The Black mansion was oh so full of surprises.

"Not gonna wake the kids, _Honey_?" I cooed in a falsetto, referring to Clyde and Craig downstairs.

"I'd just have to tuck them in again, _Boo._" I snorted in an unattractive sort of way at his response. Token calling anyone 'Boo' was so R&B style that it made my insides tremble. I think R&B is incredibly sexy and no one will ever know because that is the secret I will take to the grave.

I really wasn't given any direction on which way to go, so I continued to follow the leader through the hall. Token turned into his bedroom, so did I. It's not a place I frequented, so I took a once over. Nothing but extravagant everything. A huge TV monitor mounted on the wall, a desk with a swivel chair, and a bed big enough to support an orgy (and in a mature burgundy color).

"So, did you plan to sleep in here then?" Token left no noticeable emotion tied to the question, and I really hadn't a clue what sort of comeback he expected. I froze in the doorway. Was that his way of telling me to go get a room? Or...what the hell did he actually mean? Token made a groan, scrubbing his face with his palms as he walked into the closet. Asked by anyone else, and it would have probably meant to get my ass on the couch, but Token isn't the type. That small, yet confidently correct, piece of knowledge and one more glance at the bed created at the expense of many lives, I was forced to conclude: _he should have been more specific._ I shimmied down into nothing but my shorts. Freedom is a dish best served naked—then again, my kind of freedom is an acquired taste (hence my application of shorts, for the comfort of others).

I ran and made a spectacular landing on the bed, arms wide like they do in commercials for mattresses. And lord, the sheets. Soft but not slick. Damn, this is what it felt like to be rich. Sheets suited for the gods, made from the newborn souls of ducklings and bunnies. I promptly gathered the holy bedspread, creating a nest like none made before. If someone had brought in a team of scientists, not _one_ would be able to tell where I began nor where the sheets ended. I didn't care anymore about whatever had bothered me enough to come visit so late in the night anyway. I let my eyelids take a rest, watching the weird patterns that drifted in the darkness.

The lights went out. I opened my eyes to see what happened—of course I couldn't _see _what happened though. It was pitch. I kept looking around anyway. The weight shifted, and I turned to look into the darkness. Again, couldn't see anything.

"Goddam, Kenny. Get off my blankets already."

I took some time to admire his voice, it being punctuated by the lack of sight and all. Token was tugging hard at my poor nest however, and I didn't get to admire his voice for long. Token remained mute, tugging until I had shifted enough to grant him a satisfactory amount of sheets. There wasn't much after that. Just sleep.

Who uses alarms anymore? I groaned, scrubbing my face with the back of my hand. And it wouldn't shut up. I opened my eyes, staring at a ceiling much higher than my own. "Shut it off..."

"Shut it off yourself, I'm already up."

I rolled to my side, facing a window with drawn curtains. "Where?"

"Over there."

Was he really going to do this? I looked from side to side, not seeing Token anywhere. Ugh. I sat upright to a bare-chested Token pointing across the room. I followed his pointing, seeing the alarm was like...300 yards away. I was going to have to get up. "Can't _you_?"

Token gave a face that wasn't taking any shit. "Don't you think I've been a most generous host already? You slept in my bed—_you_ can shut off the alarm if it bothers you."

I wiped the sleep from my eyes, rolling onto the floor, landing on my back. It was a painful hardwood floor, and the bed was way too far off the ground. Damn, the fall hurt more than planned. So, instead of trying to get up again, I just sort of lied on the floor with my eyes shut. "Have I ever told you how good you look without clothes, Token?"

"I'm not turning it off." I opened my eyes at the voice being so close. Token was crouched over my head, clothes fully adorned.  
"Fuck you then." It wasn't an insult, but alarms were the product of Satan having a shitty day and he needed a way to make everyone have a shitty day too.  
Token raised an eyebrow, "Fuck you too, friend." He didn't give a shit, and that's the Token I like to see. Even at the expense of listening to the dying screams of technology. Token stood back up. "It's Friday, so do you think you can manage to make it through a day school? I'll drive."

"_You'll _drive? Where's the selling point?"

"Get off my floor or I'll kick your ass."

"Only if you promise to kiss it better."

Token heaved a sigh, leaving the room while slinging his backpack over his shoulder. I tried to stay on the floor, but there was something about that alarm—it had the charm of a tone-deaf robot trying to sing soprano. Heaving myself upright, I zombie-limped my way over to the stereo system blaring its little soprano heart out. I smashed a few buttons without success, so I ended up pulling the plug. That's what he would have wanted.

I ran to catch up with Token (who again tried to thwart me with his long legs), and it's a goddamn good thing I paid attention before, because there were way too many chances to take a wrong turn and end up in the BDSM chambers or whatever rich people do with so many rooms.

Token was waiting at the bottom of the stairs to the kitchen, arms crossed.

"What about the big C?" I asked, hopping down the last few steps.

"The big C? _Really_?"

"I'm trying out something new. Don't judge. C² is such a _lame _collective name—and I'm really trying not to go down the Brangelina route." Token wound back through the kitchen, exciting through a side door and into the garage. "What would that even be? C...Crlyde? Cra...de? Claig?"

Token stepped into his ridiculously expensive vehicle and little ol' me got shotgun. And speaking of expenses, Stan gave me clothes when I was over visiting _him_—and he's not even rich. What did Token give me? Chocolate milk and a night in bed (and more disappointingly, it was not a sexy kind of night in bed).

"Cryde."

I looked over as Token turned the ignition, and the car growled awake, "What?"

He didn't look in my direction, hitting the garage clicker and shifting into drive. "I said Cryde. That'd be their "Brangelina" name. Cryde."

"You sound like you've put some thought into this."

"Hardly. It just makes sense."

"Does it?"

"Of course it does. I mean, it's a lot better than...what did you suggest? _Crlyde_? That is literally the most unappealing word I've heard out of your mouth."

I never took him to be so serious over nicknames. "Aye captain, she definitely ain't no beaut. Throw her back to the sea and god rest 'er soul," I offered a salute, "Cryde it tis." Token spent the rest of the ride dramatically rolling his eyes at my sea-faring accent—I'm surprised we didn't swerve off the road considering he was so busy reacting like my accent wasn't awesome.

* * *

I wish I could say that during school I learned new things and had pleasant social interaction. If I had tried, I may even have been able to. BUT, I wasn't in the mood to actively make my day better, so I called it a lazy day. Butters took some notes in English that I cold borrow (I highly doubt I need those though), slept through study hall and history and independent study, then there was lunch (which I would never sleep through), skipped science for another nap, and I _did_ do a little pottering in art. Butters wouldn't come over though, he was really serious this time about getting some work done. He may also have been wary to hang out with the guy who was acting like a fucking lunatic (or a Cartman as Butters so eloquently pointed out).

So, after a day of treading water, I just so happen to have a job that I have to attend. And actual job where I am paid in money. Nothing special but it gives me something to do on the weekends. It's not difficult. Movie store clerk. Everyone knows a job like that doesn't require much effort—nobody rents movies nowadays. CHEAP-O RENTAL. All caps. Very classy joint. The uniforms are to die for.

Mr. Scotchdale was as cheerful as ever as I walked in through the sliding glass doors. Meaning as soon as I walked in, his eyes rolled to the ceiling as he coughed up a healthy lungful of green and brown mucus.

"Howdy, Scotch."

Scotch twisted a knuckle into his nose, using his free hand to dig in his chest pocket. "You gonna take over until closing."

"Like always, Scotch?"

Scotchdale finally found what he'd been fishing for, tossing a ring of keys much too far out of reach. They clattered to the floor, skidding under a shelf of romantic comedies. "And you'll be here 8:00 a.m. tomorra. "

"Of course. Like always." I didn't get around to digging for those keys, instead making my way around the counter. On the shelf below there is this red and yellow hazard vest looking thing... yeah, that's the uniform. I have a name tag and everything.

There were no wishes of a goodnight as Scotchdale shouldered his way out the door in a rush to the bar or wherever the guy gets his kicks. Almost immediately, the boredom sets in. There's not a lot to do as a movie store clerk. I could watch a movie_, _but who does that?

Alone at last. Not that I was looking forward to that, but it was expected. The place was much too big for a single amigo though. And knowing the jobs so well, I knew I would continue to be a single amigo for the rest of the night—I didn't need to watch the counter. Instead, I entered the little office that's right behind the counter, and that's stretching the title a bit because it's mostly a glorified closet, and took a seat at the Mr. Scotchdale's desk. There was a mini-TV in the corner, hooked up to a videotape player. Scotchdale wasn't exactly up to date in the technologies. There was also a business phone and a note pad, both never having been used for actual business. Well—maybe once in a time before my existence.

The manila office was nothing but a place to do your private business. Take a nap, watch a porn, continue to carve profanity into the desk and patiently wait for the day when Scotchdale mentions it. Either way, the entertainment value of everything plummets when I'm alone. Work is about as shitty as a porta-potty without toilet paper. But I make money—and that's not something I'm going to take for granted.

Picking up the phone, I decided to order pizza. The cool thing is that Pizza is a business expense, so...free pizza. "Mami Pizza, how can I help you?" I recognize this voice.

"Hey, weren't you the delivery guy last time?"

"What?"

"The way you go 'Mami Peecha' instead of 'Mami Pizza'—I'm the guy who you probably chose to forget. You came thinking it was just gonna be your standard delivery, and you left confused yet satisfied?"

The guy called with the receiver away from his ear, "Roy, can you get this one for me?" I could barely hear the following conversation. Roy wanted to know what the problem was and Peecha Man was stuttering about bladder problems or something. Poor guy.

So, finally Roy got back on with me instead, clearing his throat before responding, "Uhh...sorry about that, Sir. That employee seems to be feeling ill—so, how can I help you?"

"Family. Deep-dish. Everything." A 30 minute wait that I didn't want to wait. So, what does one do with 30 minutes to spare? Invite a friend over to do shit with.

So—now it was time to get down to what I _really _cared about. Bloody Mary himself hadn't made contact since he went to the hospital. Can't say I didn't lose a _little _respect for him—because really, who misses school over a bloody nose? I called the Broflovski home phone, praying for Kyle to pick up and just make this simple for me.

"Hello, this is the Broflovski residence, may I ask who is calling?" The voice was in a higher pitch than I had hoped for.

"Ike. _Ike. _Put Kyle on the phone." I tried my best to put on my commanding voice, but no cigar.

"May I ask who is calling?" Ike repeated, even though he damn well knew it was me.

"Ike, put Kyle on the phone."

"Well, he's going to ask who is calling if I tell him to come get the phone."

"Then tell him it's _me_."

"Who is 'me'?"

"Do you make everyone go through this or is this special treatment?"

"How could I treat you special if I don't know who you are?"

"I will kick you around like the pigskin you were born to be if you don't put your brother on right now, Ike."

"You wouldn't follow through."

"Stop being a little smartass, Ike."

"Just tell me who is calling, and I'll yell for Kyle."

Ike has grown into the damnnest little shit talker and it was both impressive and annoying. I gave up on trying to win. "It's _Kenny_."

Over the phone, Ike called and Kyle was on in a short enough time span where I would imagine he heard at least half of the conversation. "Kenny?"

"Kyle, why the hell would you just let Ike just go on like that on the phone?"

"Only an idiot would argue with him that long before giving up their name. It's not my damn fault you're stubborn."

Okay, I give up—wow, twice in the past sixty seconds even. "Anyway—you should come over and entertain me."

"Is that all I am to you?" Kyle wasn't being serious, but that didn't make me feel any better. I'm being accused of things left and right recently.

"Haven't I made it clear enough already that you're only a hunk of eye candy to me?"

"Well, where are you?"

"CHEAP-O. And if it's any incentive, I ordered pizza."

* * *

**So, yep. That was my impression of Token everybody, give 'em a hand! *applause***

Love yall! Your reviews help me to know what I'm doing right, and of course they inspired me to carry on! There's more where this came from!  
(I just have to find somewhere in my brain)


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